It's discomforting but probably healthy to be a stranger in a strange land. People insist on accosting you and talking for at least 30 minutes even though you can't understand a damn thing they are saying. To do any action, to buy food, or a bus ticket, you start looking for the subtle signs, the translations of how iconography is supposed to look, or the kinds of buildings where buses seem to be congregating. You are reduced to the simplest of actions, servicio, tortas, autobus, peso.
Strangely enough I found even the Zapatista roadblocks to be merely another curiosity. I obviously have no sense of self preservation. I felt more threatenend around the federales than the rebels.
To explain my strange sense of dis-connection it is important to understand that I'd just come out of an intensely political and verbal fistfight back in Calgary. We'd sold majority interest in our company, and I was increasingly at odds with the political expediencies of the new 'management', meanwhile trying to hold the whole thing together without publically criticizing anybody given that the company was intending to go public. It was stressful. The Zapatista Rebels held nothing on where my mental state was at. Guns, metal poles and knives were simple shiny objects not really impinging upon my consciousness to the same degree as performance escrow agreements, lawyers and bald faced threats.
I generally feel disconnected actually, not vital in a sense. Perhaps thats because I try to supress a sense of being distinct from those around me. I carried over a bit of the meloncholy that vacations always induce in me. For example here is one of my journal entries prior to trip.
Anyway, I was an observer aboard myself on this vacation. Knowing full well that this would be the most expensive vacation I'd ever taken added a special poignancy to everything.
We struck out from base camp for San Cristobol.
We foolishly stopped to ask for directions nearby a military outpost, a few hummers, army people in black boots with machine guns lounging around. One of the military personnel came over and told us that he had to have our passports. Theo didn't like this at all (nor I), and talked with the man for quite a while until we basically had to give in. As it turns out, their role was simply to advise tourists to stay away from the area, and to get records of people in the area. I sat quietly, and although I understood much of the discussion, I feigned total disinterest. We hopped back into the truck and were on our merry way.
Our first roadblock was on the San Cristobal road, a battalion of ornately dressed high mountain Guatamalean women sat to each side of the road, their husbands blocking the road with nails driven through logs. They came to the window and demanded cinquante (50) peso's, enough to bus quite a few of them to the upcoming march in Tuxla. Theo bargained viciously with them, threatening to turn around and talk to the Federales, and ultimately managed to do a deal for cinqo (5) peso's. In exchange we received passage and a little propaganda document hand typed (which I will post here at some point).
In San Cristobol we caught up with Scott and Michelle and Andrew and Herbert, some of our friends on a parallel course. Wandered around the town. Much to my delight I found a place that sold Creme Caramel, and had about five during our stay. Many more natives here, selling brightly colored garb.
San Cristobol is a pretty town, in the highest part of the mountains in Chiapas, many churches, and quite a few eco-tourists wandering around aimlessly. We were there during holy week, but managed to avoid the celebrations. Stayed in the highest quality hotel (for about $20 Canadian).
From there we were off to Aqua Azul, a muddy little cesspool of a native tourist resort. It has a rather pretty natural series of waterfall cascades through flowstone pools with wide brimmed lips. It was terrific to doff filthy clothes and go swimming in it. We basically spent a day there, again with Scott, Michelle, Andrew, Herbert - drinking and hanging out.
Back on the road again, the worst and last of the Zapatista roadblocks. They adamanetly wanted 50 peso's and we adamently refused. We went to turn around / block traffic, but we were also blocked from behind, and one of the bus drivers from oncoming traffic raised the situation to a new level of tension by starting to kick our vehicle - which promoted a sympathetic reaction on the part of the rebels - who then all proceeded to kick Theo's truck. This was basically escalating out of control so we just started pushing money out the window until the roadblock was removed and we were on our merry way. A special 'fuck you' is reserved for the bus driver. In the next town we advised the federales, and they all hopped in their truck, guns and all, apparently heading off to kick some zapatista butt (I guess they found the thought of pounding on Zapatistas more fun than just harassing us for bothering them).
Apparently after I had departed by myself, Theo ran into a federale who cost him more than the above mentioned roadblock, but to that point that was the biggest downer we had.
Paleneke! You know, it's kindof nice to see these ruins, to say 'I've been there', but it's also pretty boring. We did a brief tour and got the fuck out of there, generally just pissed off about the roadblock; and having general feelings of ill will towards the state of Chiapas in general.
We left before Scott and his troupe showed up there.
Later on in Villa Hermosa, and in Mexico City, I had a chance to visit some of the great Mexican museums (which I've already talked about), and for me that was where what little hands on feel from Paleneke was properly elaborated on. I have a total fascination with the art and the cursives; I think the psyche is manifested in the lines that the hands draw - the shape of each line reflects the thinking, the variation or lack of variation reflects the degree to which the line is 'art' versus a formalized ritual, an unconscious cultural fertility dance, a preening ground or 'lek'. Does this make sense? To see those millenia old lines, still casting shadows to an uncaring sun day after day, a message read only by vines and rats.
In Villa Hermosa we shopped, got some orange juice, fixed Theo's car, and basically just hung out. Theo headed back for Canada by car the next day, and I stuck around for a day. We'd run into a diplomat and his daughter Mayra and she'd invited me to speak at an english immersion class, which I did the following evening. I also got treated for dinner, and got to see Tequila Rock, a rather trendy rock bar for the Villa Hermosa youth. Again I was impressed by the friendliness of people, with honesty and courtesy. I believe the strong Catholic background here is part of an enabling process for people, that they have a mindset which allows them to be friendly.
I got back to my suite late and crashed for a couple of hours before my flight all the way back to Calgary.
Thats all folks.