Chiapas/Xela

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.