Historically, the regions to the east of Mexico city have received little federal attention. Predominantly populated by persons of indigenous descent, the area, until recently, has never been of great interest to the Spanish. The roads through the states of Tabasco and Chiapas are spotted with tiny villages, most of which speak one of the hundreds of Mayan derived languages. Since I wasn't having enough difficulty understanding native Spanish speakers, I jumped at the opportunity to interpret the most thickly accented Spanish ever I've heard in my life. Yes, thicker than Cuban.
I rode a bus for some distance through the partially flooded lowlands of Veracruz and Tabasco, disembarking at the town of Villahermosa, Tabasco. The town, still littered with sandbags, was in full-throttle disaster recovery mode. The streets were covered in dirt and garbage as a result of the dividing river overtaking its banks the preceding week. I spent only enough time in town to take some photos. I then rode east, stopping after my third flat tire of the day to camp with a flock of turkeys in a farmer's front yard.
Re-entering the Sierra Madres, I climbed up to 1500m from sea level to the town of Palenque, not far from the marvelous Mayan ruins by the same name. The road carved through the mountains in a southerly direction, peaking at around 2000m. I spent two nights in the subtle, provincial town of Ocosingo and my final night in Mexico in the splendid colonial city of Comitan. On route, I visited another site of remarkable ruins as well as two enormous and bountiful waterfalls sited on rivers draining from the mountain highlands. The altitude made for some steaming hot days, brisk nights and frosty mornings. It was a challenge more particular to Canada, to draw myself out of bed in the freezing cold.
From Comitan, I cruised down a steep, twenty-five kilometer hill to an expansive valley and one of the largest corn-producing regions in the country. Only a three kilometer climb into the opposite range of mountains, I suddenly found myself reaching for my passport at the Guatemalan border. I spent a night Guatemala's border town, La Mesilla. I made good friends with the owner of the Hotel Eben Ezer and his 12 year old son Osman, an aspiring world champion cyclist.
As foretold by a northbound pair of cyclists the previous day, I ascended steadily for nearly 65km to the 1900m town of Huehuetenango. Too tired to breathe, I broke the bank on a $2 hotel and slept like I'd just lost 22 years. I rode Friday to Quetzeltenango, called Xela (Shay-la) in Mayan, but not before descending 1000m, climbing back up, and descending back down again.
Xela is bordered on three sides by mountains, one of which is a 4200m sleeping volcano. It's a daring mix of indigenous and Spanish cultures and is quite proximate to numerous sites of natural magnificence. I've resolved to spend a week here, absorbing some of the natural beauty and spending five hours daily at one the the numerous Spanish schools for travellers. This may end up resulting in a truncation of my journey, but I suspect it will be worth it.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Mexico City
Not unlike Los Angeles, Mexico has an air about it that can be seen for quite a distance in advance. I've been told that ideas, such as a giant exhaust system, have been thrown around to curb the smog problem. For now, the many will have to survive walking around with surgical masks.
The blow of my arrival into the city (something I had been fearing) was softened largely by Jon, who drove some distance into the outskirts to pick me up on a Sunday morning. He then graciously housed me in his condominium in Cuajimalpa (a peripheral borough) for three nights while I toured the city daily by bus and on foot.
Out of necessity, I visited an incredible suburban shopping mall; one that capably dwarfed Toronto's Eaton Centre. I felt rather uncomfortable in a facility that elsewhere I'd have felt entirely natural. The following day, prior to a visit to the National Anthropological Museum, I bussed an hour North of the city to the magnificent, ancient ruins of Teotihuacan. I marvelled at its vastness, trying to picture the site inhabiting up to 250,000 citizens.
After another day of markets, galleries and Metro train rides from point to point in the chaotic capital, I decided to spend my final night in the heart of downtown. Navigationally, my bike ride in was a success. A well concealed pot-hole, however, managed to claim the lives of two of my spokes. Once again, I was blessed by the presence of a highly skilled mechanic who, free of charge, solved my problems and then some.
I proceeded to the Hostel Moneda; a 3 minute walk from the Zocalo, Mexico's enormous civic square. I was contented for a full day just to wander aimlessly through the hoards of pedestrians filling the streets. I elevated to the top of the 42 story Torre Latinoamericana (once the tallest building south of Miami) from where I witnessed the sun doze off behind a mountain and the city evolve into a sea of incandescent lights - disgusting, but marvelous. After a complementary and surprisingly tasty hostel dinner, I was joined by an Italiana and an Americano in attending the Orchestra Camará performance at the brilliantly designed theatre at Bella Artes. Our threesome then indulged in a healthy dose of youth hostel atmosphere on the residence's rooftop terrace/servery.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Michoacan
The past week was a little rocky to say the least. I fell quite ill, lost a camera lens, and suffered a major mechanical meltdown which threatened to bring my trip to a halt. Thankfully, with some sweet tele-coercion from my Toronto mechanical team and some TLC from one pretty impressive bike retailer in Uruapan, I found myself back on the road.
Aside from my bike-near-tragedy, Uruapan was a world of excitement unto itself. Surrounded by the Parque Nacional Eduardo Ruiz, I visited the crystal clear Rio Cupatitzio that aggressively flowed from out of nowhere - a small pond sourced by a natural spring called the Devil's Knee (where allegedly the Devil knelt down in submission to Christianity.) I wandered for hours through the maze of stone pathways and man-made cascades & channels that relocated water for no purpose other than to amuse visitors. I entertained the idea of following a local who dove from a platform some 12 meters above the river, but opted out when he told me that the water was only 2 meters deep. Later that night, a candidate for the Presidenté Municipal held a support rally in the town square. An hour's worth of speeches was bookended with 6 hours of singers, dancers, and an truly spectacular display of fireworks. This managed to earn television broadcast, but I was more reminded of an 8th grade student election than a modern society's political campaign.
Through an estimated total of 70 uphill kilometers, I rode to and through my first experiences with pre-Columbian ruins at the town of Tzintzuntzan and settled at a hostel in the provincial capital, Morelia. Reconvening with my P.E.I. friends, I toured the town and soaked up a bit of the excitement at the launch of the two week international music festival. The town itself, however, was a little disappointing. Unlike all others I'd been to, Morelia's large civic square was bordered with upscale hotels, fine dining, and pricey night clubs. I found myself longing for the shady street vendors and greasy meals costing less than $2.
In discussing my departure from Morelia, I quote a local as saying "it's all uphill from here." A three day climb to Toluca (elev. 2700m) was one of the most physically challenging endeavours of my life thus far. While most would shudder at the idea, I have found that it has merely emboldened my passion for cycling. The stunning vistas, winding roads and small villages pocketed in between mountains kept me with the attitude that there was nowhere I'd rather be than crawling up a mountain for 2.5 hours straight - the most memorable of the hills so far. Toluca itself, a utilitarian town at its finest, wasn't a whole lot of fun. On the bright side, the $20, 7th floor hotel room (the most expensive yet) proved to be a good place to relax and wait for a ride (yes, in a car) into Mexico City.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Bullfight
Check out the accomanying photos here.
Around 2:30pm on a hot, dry Guadalajara afternoon, I made my way by city bus to the plaza Plaza del Toros. 2 hours early, the mostly unpaved parking area was largely empty, but a large queue of inbound cars extending well onto the avenue suggested that was soon to change. Snack and paraphernalia vendors lined the perimeter of the 300m wide stadium, accompanied by a few crowded temporary restaurants shaded under canvas tents. I easily found the ticket vendor and selected a moderately priced seat, crossing my fingers for a good view. My first attempt at entry into the stadium was rejected, citing a need to transfer the contents of my water bottle into a plastic bag. I did so, despite feeling a bit foolish carrying around a clear plastic sac of water. I clambered up to my section of the second level. The area was general seating, boasting 10 rows of seats covering 300 degrees of the round venue. The other 60 degrees were a fenced of section of pricier seats, already in the shade at 3pm. There I sat for 90 minutes, soaking up the sun and watching the stadium slowly fill to near capacity.
As the 4:30 start approached, a concert band of some 20 members claimed a small section of the upper deck to my left and began enriching the atmosphere with a selection of robust Spanish marches. Into the band's second selection, a group of some 50 people, all costumed, some horse-mounted, proceeded on a tour the arena, much to the delight of the spectators. Three banderillos took to their respective barriers at three of the quarters of the circle and everyone else left the arena floor. Moments later, the most furious looking animal I'd ever seen I my life came charging into the arena.
The first banderillo stepped out of his hiding spot, waving a shiny golden & pink cape at the bull. As if overwhelmed with rage, the bull charged full speed towards the cape-bearing man. The man swiftly resumed to his sanctuary behind a shoulder high board, taking the cape with him. The bull continued without hesitation in a counter-clockwise gallop towards the next awaiting banderillo and his fiery golden cape. Twice around the arena ran the bull, further enraged with the swift disappearance of each banderillo that he failed to impale.
Sufficiently aggravated, the bull was then put to the bidding of the event's three guest matadors. On horseback came the first, swiftly dodging and evading the bull's desperate attempts to wound the horse & rider. At times, it looked as though the horse was trotting sideways in a small circle around the bull - a truly magnificent display of horsemanship. After his brief horseback dance with the bull, the matador took two small spears and planted them into the mound on the bull's back. A job well done, the first matador was soon relieved by the second. His charge was just the same as his predecessor's. It's my feeling, however, that he executed it with much greater style & grace. The third and final matador took to the arena to finish the job, rendering the bull unable to stand. Soon thereafter, the head banderillo took to the field and executed the bull with a dagger, provoking the paralyzed animal to release the dregs of its energy through a slew a spasms. Amidst trumpet fanfare, uproarious cheers and another stately Spanish march, the groundskeepers returned. Assisted by two horses, the bull's corpse was dragged out of the arena.
The groundskeepers swiftly raked the ring and tidied up a few of the blemishes on the two large circles of chalk. As if right on cue, out charged the second bull - a fine toro of nearly 500kg. After another two laps of Banderillo madness, out marched a picador - a well-armoured horse carrying an equally well-armoured rider. The bull charged at this less than agile vessel, forcing it sideways into the perimeter wall. The rider then repeatedly stabbed the bull with his 2m long spear until it relented its attack. The injured horse limped out of the arena as the dumbfounded bull stumbled towards the center. It then became evident that the bull, accidentally or otherwise, had been stabbed in the left eye. (In a future query, I was told this to be an accident.) The banderillos made an effort to further aggravate the bull with hand lances, but the animal's new found disorientation proved to be a mark of unworthiness. It was resolved that the bull be removed from the arena. This task may sound simple, but it proved to be quite complicated - perhaps, I dare suggest, this was because the bull was blind in one eye. The banderillos futilely strove to draw the bull towards the exit. After nearly 15 minutes, out jogged a posse of five other bulls, held previously on reserve for moments of this nature. The bulls circled the toro and led him towards the exit only to see him disband as the five escorts made their departure. This scene went on for nearly 45 minutes and for quite nearly all of it, the entire arena was in hysterics. The bull was finally allured by the banderillos to an alternate exit from where he bid his farewell.
After another quick cleanup, the third bull came running out into the arena. He was subjected to his due two laps of banderillo teasing then once again, a little one-on-one with a picador. The bull pinned the armoured horse to the wall as the rider speared him several times at the hump of his back. One at a time, the banderillos danced around the bull, each planting two feather-toting daggers into the animal's back. Soaked in his own blood, still bestowing 6 embedded daggers, the debilitated bull was now at the mercy of the pedestrian matador. Even as a bit of a skeptic, I couldn't help but find this man to be amazing. He elegantly floated around the bull, bestowing a cape and cutlass. The toro would charge furiously towards the cape, hanging from the outstretched arm and cutlass of the matador. Not a moment too soon, the man would pull the cape away, leaving the bull diving at thin air. With each leap of the bull, the fans would cheer in unison, "Olé!" For ten minutes, the matador would invigorate the bull, sometimes standing backwards, sideways, even apparently looking the other direction. As the bull grew weary (from loss of blood?), he took two more passes at the matador where instead of thin air, he found the sharp end of a sword. Quite quickly, the bull's energy tapered and soon enough, he was dead on the ground and being subjected to the same execution as that of the first victim of the evening.
The fourth of six bulls (however, the last that I stayed for) put on a show not unlike the third. This time, the matador found himself just a little too close for comfort. Mid way through his equally graceful dance, he found the pointy end of a bull's horn somewhere around his elbow. The bull charged passed as the matador clutched his arm with an expression of irritable panic on his face. He quickly retired to the periphery and the banderillos swiftly executed the already wounded and bloody animal. Through another musical interlude, the bull's corpse was dragged out of sight. The matador ambled on a tour of the arena perimeter as fans by the hundreds waved white handkerchiefs paying respects to the injured. Dozens of fans even threw forth their hats as the matador walked by. He'd pick up the hat, nod obligingly, then throw it right back.
Partly motivated by a bus schedule, it was around this time that I decided I'd seen enough. I made my way out of the arena and back to the ground floor. The girl guarding the exit gate looked a bit astonished to see someone leaving early, but soon concluded that I was just another gringo who hadn't realized what he'd gotten himself into. Content with an evenings discoveries, I cut back across the deserted makeshift restaurants and through the small sea of cars to my awaiting, downtown-bound public bus.
Around 2:30pm on a hot, dry Guadalajara afternoon, I made my way by city bus to the plaza Plaza del Toros. 2 hours early, the mostly unpaved parking area was largely empty, but a large queue of inbound cars extending well onto the avenue suggested that was soon to change. Snack and paraphernalia vendors lined the perimeter of the 300m wide stadium, accompanied by a few crowded temporary restaurants shaded under canvas tents. I easily found the ticket vendor and selected a moderately priced seat, crossing my fingers for a good view. My first attempt at entry into the stadium was rejected, citing a need to transfer the contents of my water bottle into a plastic bag. I did so, despite feeling a bit foolish carrying around a clear plastic sac of water. I clambered up to my section of the second level. The area was general seating, boasting 10 rows of seats covering 300 degrees of the round venue. The other 60 degrees were a fenced of section of pricier seats, already in the shade at 3pm. There I sat for 90 minutes, soaking up the sun and watching the stadium slowly fill to near capacity.
As the 4:30 start approached, a concert band of some 20 members claimed a small section of the upper deck to my left and began enriching the atmosphere with a selection of robust Spanish marches. Into the band's second selection, a group of some 50 people, all costumed, some horse-mounted, proceeded on a tour the arena, much to the delight of the spectators. Three banderillos took to their respective barriers at three of the quarters of the circle and everyone else left the arena floor. Moments later, the most furious looking animal I'd ever seen I my life came charging into the arena.
The first banderillo stepped out of his hiding spot, waving a shiny golden & pink cape at the bull. As if overwhelmed with rage, the bull charged full speed towards the cape-bearing man. The man swiftly resumed to his sanctuary behind a shoulder high board, taking the cape with him. The bull continued without hesitation in a counter-clockwise gallop towards the next awaiting banderillo and his fiery golden cape. Twice around the arena ran the bull, further enraged with the swift disappearance of each banderillo that he failed to impale.
Sufficiently aggravated, the bull was then put to the bidding of the event's three guest matadors. On horseback came the first, swiftly dodging and evading the bull's desperate attempts to wound the horse & rider. At times, it looked as though the horse was trotting sideways in a small circle around the bull - a truly magnificent display of horsemanship. After his brief horseback dance with the bull, the matador took two small spears and planted them into the mound on the bull's back. A job well done, the first matador was soon relieved by the second. His charge was just the same as his predecessor's. It's my feeling, however, that he executed it with much greater style & grace. The third and final matador took to the arena to finish the job, rendering the bull unable to stand. Soon thereafter, the head banderillo took to the field and executed the bull with a dagger, provoking the paralyzed animal to release the dregs of its energy through a slew a spasms. Amidst trumpet fanfare, uproarious cheers and another stately Spanish march, the groundskeepers returned. Assisted by two horses, the bull's corpse was dragged out of the arena.
The groundskeepers swiftly raked the ring and tidied up a few of the blemishes on the two large circles of chalk. As if right on cue, out charged the second bull - a fine toro of nearly 500kg. After another two laps of Banderillo madness, out marched a picador - a well-armoured horse carrying an equally well-armoured rider. The bull charged at this less than agile vessel, forcing it sideways into the perimeter wall. The rider then repeatedly stabbed the bull with his 2m long spear until it relented its attack. The injured horse limped out of the arena as the dumbfounded bull stumbled towards the center. It then became evident that the bull, accidentally or otherwise, had been stabbed in the left eye. (In a future query, I was told this to be an accident.) The banderillos made an effort to further aggravate the bull with hand lances, but the animal's new found disorientation proved to be a mark of unworthiness. It was resolved that the bull be removed from the arena. This task may sound simple, but it proved to be quite complicated - perhaps, I dare suggest, this was because the bull was blind in one eye. The banderillos futilely strove to draw the bull towards the exit. After nearly 15 minutes, out jogged a posse of five other bulls, held previously on reserve for moments of this nature. The bulls circled the toro and led him towards the exit only to see him disband as the five escorts made their departure. This scene went on for nearly 45 minutes and for quite nearly all of it, the entire arena was in hysterics. The bull was finally allured by the banderillos to an alternate exit from where he bid his farewell.
After another quick cleanup, the third bull came running out into the arena. He was subjected to his due two laps of banderillo teasing then once again, a little one-on-one with a picador. The bull pinned the armoured horse to the wall as the rider speared him several times at the hump of his back. One at a time, the banderillos danced around the bull, each planting two feather-toting daggers into the animal's back. Soaked in his own blood, still bestowing 6 embedded daggers, the debilitated bull was now at the mercy of the pedestrian matador. Even as a bit of a skeptic, I couldn't help but find this man to be amazing. He elegantly floated around the bull, bestowing a cape and cutlass. The toro would charge furiously towards the cape, hanging from the outstretched arm and cutlass of the matador. Not a moment too soon, the man would pull the cape away, leaving the bull diving at thin air. With each leap of the bull, the fans would cheer in unison, "Olé!" For ten minutes, the matador would invigorate the bull, sometimes standing backwards, sideways, even apparently looking the other direction. As the bull grew weary (from loss of blood?), he took two more passes at the matador where instead of thin air, he found the sharp end of a sword. Quite quickly, the bull's energy tapered and soon enough, he was dead on the ground and being subjected to the same execution as that of the first victim of the evening.
The fourth of six bulls (however, the last that I stayed for) put on a show not unlike the third. This time, the matador found himself just a little too close for comfort. Mid way through his equally graceful dance, he found the pointy end of a bull's horn somewhere around his elbow. The bull charged passed as the matador clutched his arm with an expression of irritable panic on his face. He quickly retired to the periphery and the banderillos swiftly executed the already wounded and bloody animal. Through another musical interlude, the bull's corpse was dragged out of sight. The matador ambled on a tour of the arena perimeter as fans by the hundreds waved white handkerchiefs paying respects to the injured. Dozens of fans even threw forth their hats as the matador walked by. He'd pick up the hat, nod obligingly, then throw it right back.
Partly motivated by a bus schedule, it was around this time that I decided I'd seen enough. I made my way out of the arena and back to the ground floor. The girl guarding the exit gate looked a bit astonished to see someone leaving early, but soon concluded that I was just another gringo who hadn't realized what he'd gotten himself into. Content with an evenings discoveries, I cut back across the deserted makeshift restaurants and through the small sea of cars to my awaiting, downtown-bound public bus.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Guadalajara
There's something a bit mystifying about Bruce Willis movies. In particular, Tears of the Sun. This film was being aired in Spanish without subtitles on the ferry ride across the Sea of Cortez. Somehow, despite my inability to comprehend about 90% of the dialogue, I can confidently say that I did not miss a thing in that movie.
The ferry from La Paz travelled southeast towards the mainland city of Mazatlan. In doing so, it crossed the Tropic of Cancer. Granted, there was a significant geographic change as well, but with that crossing came a radical change in climate. Days have regressed to a comfortable average temperature of 23 to 26 degrees Celsius and nights have brought forth assured sweater weather. The landscape has revealed endless, green, rolling hills. I've been told, however, that it has been browning since the terminus of the rainy season three weeks ago. I've also received my first taste of the Sierra Madres mountain range and it's been a true test of endurance.
Three days ago, I arrived at the house of my ex-pat Torontonian friend, Alex. I spent two days exploring the 4 small towns lining the north shore of Laguna Chapala, about 50km south of Guadalajara. This included a pretty unique celebration of Mexico's Dias de los Muertes (day of the dead.) Late Friday afternoon, I joined about 200 other people in a casual meander of the Ajijic cemetery where there was live music and ample free food to celebrate the re-acquaintance with dead relatives.
Yesterday, I made my way into Guadalajara, the second largest city in the nation. I toured the historic downtown with a pair of P.E.I. natives I met at the Hostel Guadalajara, my residence for the night. Guad is home to numerous historic buildings, several massive pedestrian plazas, astonishing markets unlike anything I've ever seen and even a stunning 16th century cathedral. Despite all of the amazing architecture, I most enjoyed just sitting in the plazas, watching the thousands of Guadalajarians go about their usual Saturday business. The city was so very full of life and energy, I found it impossible to keep the smile from my face.
Occupying the second floor of a building well over one hundred years old, the hostel boasted ceilings some 10 meters above my head, supported by massive stone arches. Each room (including the one I shared with 7 others) opened up to a walk-out terrace where more than once I stood, overlooking the bustling street below. Saturday night brought numerous travellers out of the woodwork to an aprez Day of the Dead costume party. Not having my Lance Armstrong outfit, I opted to wear my sleeping bag, dubbing myself Jabba the Hut. It was a lot of fun to struggle through Spanish dialogue with a handful of people from around the world, very few of which spoke any English (even fewer had seen Star Wars.) Furthermore, the ridiculous costumes (Kill Bill, Greek goddess, giant cassette tape) and the readily flowing alcohol made for an hilarious night.
Today, I linger around Guadalajara for another afternoon. Tonight, I return by bus to Ajijic for an early ride towards Mexico City - ETA: six days.
Until the smog capital of the world, I hope this bronchitis goes away.
The ferry from La Paz travelled southeast towards the mainland city of Mazatlan. In doing so, it crossed the Tropic of Cancer. Granted, there was a significant geographic change as well, but with that crossing came a radical change in climate. Days have regressed to a comfortable average temperature of 23 to 26 degrees Celsius and nights have brought forth assured sweater weather. The landscape has revealed endless, green, rolling hills. I've been told, however, that it has been browning since the terminus of the rainy season three weeks ago. I've also received my first taste of the Sierra Madres mountain range and it's been a true test of endurance.
Three days ago, I arrived at the house of my ex-pat Torontonian friend, Alex. I spent two days exploring the 4 small towns lining the north shore of Laguna Chapala, about 50km south of Guadalajara. This included a pretty unique celebration of Mexico's Dias de los Muertes (day of the dead.) Late Friday afternoon, I joined about 200 other people in a casual meander of the Ajijic cemetery where there was live music and ample free food to celebrate the re-acquaintance with dead relatives.
Yesterday, I made my way into Guadalajara, the second largest city in the nation. I toured the historic downtown with a pair of P.E.I. natives I met at the Hostel Guadalajara, my residence for the night. Guad is home to numerous historic buildings, several massive pedestrian plazas, astonishing markets unlike anything I've ever seen and even a stunning 16th century cathedral. Despite all of the amazing architecture, I most enjoyed just sitting in the plazas, watching the thousands of Guadalajarians go about their usual Saturday business. The city was so very full of life and energy, I found it impossible to keep the smile from my face.
Occupying the second floor of a building well over one hundred years old, the hostel boasted ceilings some 10 meters above my head, supported by massive stone arches. Each room (including the one I shared with 7 others) opened up to a walk-out terrace where more than once I stood, overlooking the bustling street below. Saturday night brought numerous travellers out of the woodwork to an aprez Day of the Dead costume party. Not having my Lance Armstrong outfit, I opted to wear my sleeping bag, dubbing myself Jabba the Hut. It was a lot of fun to struggle through Spanish dialogue with a handful of people from around the world, very few of which spoke any English (even fewer had seen Star Wars.) Furthermore, the ridiculous costumes (Kill Bill, Greek goddess, giant cassette tape) and the readily flowing alcohol made for an hilarious night.
Today, I linger around Guadalajara for another afternoon. Tonight, I return by bus to Ajijic for an early ride towards Mexico City - ETA: six days.
Until the smog capital of the world, I hope this bronchitis goes away.
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