G’afternoon, and greetings. I come to you now with tidings of tides, tides turning, and tired eyes.
After the Oaxacan mountains I descended to sea-level and the glorious playas of Xipolite and Mazunte. Both low-key towns on the sedate Pacific Coast, ideal for some mental and physical recuperation. Sunshine coronas, shaded hammocks and the surprisingly violent surf of the Pacific Ocean (I later learned our chosen bay was known locally as ‘death beach’… oh dear). Naked swimming seemed to be the norm here, and as Jesus famously coined: “When in Rome…”. The pace of living there was definitely shifted down a few gears, in accord with an infinitely more relaxed understanding of time. Restaurants were ridiculously laid back, and apparently totally unprepared for the eventuality of actual customers; ingredients generally unavailable or sought from neighbouring joints; kitchens sent into slow-motion meltdown. After an indeterminate number of days Iraxti (the Basquero), Mik Mik (the Mexican) and I left Oaxaca for the state of Chiapas.
This was kicked off with a full day’s 500km hitch-hike north-east to Tuxtla, an immensely satisfying achievement, for a few brief moments. Then we hit all kinds of walls. Upon our nighttime arrival, not only did the regional capital turn out to have fewer charms than Fritzl’s basement - the first hostel we found had 2 rusted iron bed frames and one single mattress - but Iraxti had forgotten her bag of essentials on one of the rides. Nightmare. Thankfully we made contact with the possessor, but our movements onward were stymied by her need to backtrack. Mik and I waited for a couple days nearby in the exquisitely featureless Chiapas de Corso. Not a strong start for the new state. To liven up the doldrums I adopted a local team (Cruz Azul), only to have them robbed of the championship in the final 2 minutes. By the opposing keeper. Fifa football. The match was made by the hispanic commentators who were even more electrically enthused than usual, with the final “GOOOOOAL” lasting a full 20 seconds. Amazing.
HOWEVER once we’d reconvened, all bags accounted for, we hit up the jungle-ensconced San Cristobal de las Casas like a screaming ball of hot bark. This place was a city in dreadlock; you couldn’t move for hippies. And more Aztec chic than the edgiest club in Leeds. It was pretty cool; cold, even, on account of its elevation and frequent rainfall, served chilled. A welcome respite from the humid oven that is much of Mexico, but a little too close to the Vancouver winter for my summer jaunt. Mik Mik didn’t want to leave. It was in the hostel here that I met a Brit who was so impressed with my command of the English language that he gifted me Michel Thomas’ entire series of Spanish lessons. Kerching.
Despues, llegamos en Panchan y los Ruinas de Maya. This was what Chiapas was all about - entering prehistoric jungle, experiencing pre-Hispanic culture, and describing it all in a histrionic fashion. IT WAS INCRÉIBLE. But in all seriousness, it was incréible. The jungle itself clearly greedily imbibed more than its fair share of the primordial soup: the forest floor alive with a Proletariat of ants; understory thick with tangled vegetation; canopy populated by a Curdled Blood of Howler monkeys. When these guys scream onto the scene the meditative sonic background of Forest Ambient gets a lot more hectic. MAN are they loud. And invisible. What I DID see though, were the ruins, constituting my first true exposure to the ancient grandeur of Mayan civilisation and their penchant for pyramids. The Palenque site offered some phenomenally grand Mayan architecture, sculpture and bas-relief carvings, depicting their starkly hierarchical society (standard). Particularly interesting, though, was the cultural role of the juegos de pelota (mesoamerican ball-sports). Both here and Yaxchilan and Bonampak (in a 2-day jaunt) exhibited ball-courts, which apparently were largely a ritualistic expression of their fascination with the dualistic interplay of opposing forces: light/dark, earth/sky, life/death. Life is all about balance. If you put the ceremonial beheadings of the losers aside, these guys were onto something. Although perhaps if Cricket followed the same rule British colonial history would have been quite a different story.
Following some jungle lodging, hiking and edenic river swimming (beautifully referred to in Mexico as a purifying bath - photos pending) I parted ways with my companions. Two consecutive nights of overnight bussing later and I have arrived at Isla Holbox. Hell yes.
TL;DR - The Mayans were the shit.
