We wanted to be beach bums for a while, so we hopped on the bus from Orizaba to Veracruz – a 2 ½ hour ride that only cost about 10 bucks. The state of Veracruz is gorgeous with its tropical green, especially vibrant during the summer rainy season. The view was wonderful, when I wasn’t distracted by the in-ride feature, “Sahara” (dubbed in Spanish, of course). Our arrival put us five blocks from Hostel Zion, the cheapest rooms I could find on the internet at $15 per night. When we arrived, the Argentinean owner was kind enough to give us the choice of an unfinished room (no air conditioning and a broken window) for $10 a night. We’re cheap, so we took it. Let me tell ya, you get what you pay for – more on that later.
A 20-minute walk from the hostel took us to our bumming paradise. Nothing balmy and tropic like the pictures of Cancun; it was brown and bordered by a main city road, but the sea breeze was a great relief from the July humidity, the beaches had barely any people and the ocean was like bath water. We swam until dusk and then sat on the beach and watched the reflection of the city lights grow bright in the surf. I watched a couple of crabs battle it out for realty on one of the many rock jetties breaking up the long beach. Warm breezes kept us comfortable until 9 when we started looking for dinner and headed back. There were plenty of options on the coast, from McD’s to local seafood. We opted for hamburgers.
As soon as we walked inland, the sea breeze was gone and we were reminded that July is the hottest time of year to be in Veracruz. By the time we got to the hostel, the water in our room wasn’t working (a temporary malfunction common in Mexico) so we took our toiletries and showered in the neighboring room. Only cold water, but no one was complaining. The heat made it impossible to sleep until early morning (despite the provided fan). About 4 a.m. it began to rain on our sorry parade, right through the window and all over Brandon. The whole situation was so pathetic we couldn’t help but laugh. Sleep must have come, because I woke up refreshed around 9:30, just in time to catch the provided breakfast of coffee, juice and cookies. I went to find the free Wi-Fi available in the house (it worked well downstairs) and was thankful for a cheap, albeit adventurous place to keep my head dry at night.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Mexican Hospitality and Mud Slides
On our hike to Pico del Águila, we met Moises Aguilar from Orizaba. I had heard of the city and wanted to go, so we caught a ride with our new friend and made the four-hour car trip when he decided to visit his family. Then we experienced true Mexican hospitality. “Es tu casa” (This is your house) was repeated to me over and over again when I thanked our hosts for the delicious breakfasts, the place to stay or for doing our laundry.
The Aguilars took us places we couldn’t have found on our own: a zip line over elephant waterfall, a hike around the accompanying dam, and a spelunking venture into the caves of Galicia.
In the tiny town of La Cuesta Del Mexicano about 30 minutes south of Orizaba on windy mountain roads is the relatively hidden treasure of Orizaba’s caves. Driving in, school children would yell out “Las Grutas” advertising their services as tour guides in the small caverns. We picked up Moises Gonzales, a 10-year-old who knew his way around the rock formations, inside and out. The first cave was easy to navigate. The city had strung up lights to show the walking route. The second cave, much larger and more impressive, necessitated lights, and, during rainy season, boots (I didn’t have any). The mud was thick, and I came out with shoes covered in a mix of thick mud and guano. The venture was not for anyone who wanted to keep their fingernails clean, but the slippery trek was well worth it when we arrived at the large rooms and turned our flashlight upward to see what years of dripping moisture had formed in the jagged ceiling.
As a slid down the path in the cave Moises kept telling me, “It’s better in March – there isn’t so much mud.”
Back at the first cavern Moises showed us the inside route to climb to the top of the small hill. I’m not much of a climber, but the way was easy enough for me to make it to the top and look out over the valley of Ixtaczoquitlan, home of coffee and sugar cane farmers who speak their indigenous language of Nahuatl, an Aztec language spoken by 1.5 million people in Mexico. Moises taught me a few words, though he claimed that he couldn’t speak the language himself.
I looked out over the greenery as Zach said, “And just think, we’re in the middle of God knows where Mexico.”
This is the life, I thought as I watched a little boy get a haircut in his backyard down the hill – the life of a Mexican people who had lived and worked in that valley for generations.
The Aguilars took us places we couldn’t have found on our own: a zip line over elephant waterfall, a hike around the accompanying dam, and a spelunking venture into the caves of Galicia.
In the tiny town of La Cuesta Del Mexicano about 30 minutes south of Orizaba on windy mountain roads is the relatively hidden treasure of Orizaba’s caves. Driving in, school children would yell out “Las Grutas” advertising their services as tour guides in the small caverns. We picked up Moises Gonzales, a 10-year-old who knew his way around the rock formations, inside and out. The first cave was easy to navigate. The city had strung up lights to show the walking route. The second cave, much larger and more impressive, necessitated lights, and, during rainy season, boots (I didn’t have any). The mud was thick, and I came out with shoes covered in a mix of thick mud and guano. The venture was not for anyone who wanted to keep their fingernails clean, but the slippery trek was well worth it when we arrived at the large rooms and turned our flashlight upward to see what years of dripping moisture had formed in the jagged ceiling.
As a slid down the path in the cave Moises kept telling me, “It’s better in March – there isn’t so much mud.”
Back at the first cavern Moises showed us the inside route to climb to the top of the small hill. I’m not much of a climber, but the way was easy enough for me to make it to the top and look out over the valley of Ixtaczoquitlan, home of coffee and sugar cane farmers who speak their indigenous language of Nahuatl, an Aztec language spoken by 1.5 million people in Mexico. Moises taught me a few words, though he claimed that he couldn’t speak the language himself.
I looked out over the greenery as Zach said, “And just think, we’re in the middle of God knows where Mexico.”
This is the life, I thought as I watched a little boy get a haircut in his backyard down the hill – the life of a Mexican people who had lived and worked in that valley for generations.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
No longer behind the lens
Traveling without a camera has been a bit desperate for me. After my last SLR got destroyed in a kayaking accident, I’ve been the camera-less photographer, slyly slipping the Olympus out of my co-traveler’s bag to get the shot I want.
Yet during the few times I trust my friends to get the good shots and look around me with both eyes open, I find myself enjoying it. I stop and talk with a churro vendor. I smile and make faces at the little baby in a stroller (who I’d normally be taking a shot of). I feel the breeze against my face as I look at Mexico’s city lights while I hang out the door of a microbus traveling down Insurgentes Street. And I love the city as one who belongs to it, not one who is documenting it.
All the same, I itch to press the button and hear that shutter. After Mexico I hope to go back to Arkansas and find the long-awaited package from Nikon. Until then, thanks to my friends Branden and Zach for the pictures on this page.
Yet during the few times I trust my friends to get the good shots and look around me with both eyes open, I find myself enjoying it. I stop and talk with a churro vendor. I smile and make faces at the little baby in a stroller (who I’d normally be taking a shot of). I feel the breeze against my face as I look at Mexico’s city lights while I hang out the door of a microbus traveling down Insurgentes Street. And I love the city as one who belongs to it, not one who is documenting it.
All the same, I itch to press the button and hear that shutter. After Mexico I hope to go back to Arkansas and find the long-awaited package from Nikon. Until then, thanks to my friends Branden and Zach for the pictures on this page.
Mexican Hippies
Weekends at Coyoacan in the southern part of Mexico City are filled with incense, Aztec drumming and the summoning smell of churros rellenos (for those gringos out there that means a fried, sugar-covered breadstick filled with a scrumptious cream of your choice – chocolate, strawberry, the list goes on).
My friends and I affectionately dubbed the open-air market the “hippie mart” since tye-dyed clothing and tams with fake dreads could be bought at every third stand. Unfortunately dreadless tams couldn’t be found (as my dreaded friend Zach quickly found out).
Though Coyoacan isn’t a market targeted toward the tourist, it was easy to find souvenir items like maracas and woven handbags between jewelry stands and vendors offering henna tattoos. It was a perfect mix of a market only the locals know about with the ethnic touches like feathered Indians doing ancient dances for entertainment.
Monday, June 25, 2007
On to new heights
My second day into Mexico city I decided that the Federal District’s 7,347 ft. altitude wasn’t high enough for me. When missionary James Henderson invited me and my buddies to go hiking to the peak of the Ajusco mountain range, also called Pico del Águila (12,894 ft.), there was no way I could turn him down.
We took off at 7:30 Saturday morning. We put our altitude acclimation to the test – even my linebacker friend was huffin it. The climb was relatively easy except that the path was made of loose rocks. When we started climbing the peak, I had flashbacks of Frodo and Sam climbing up the side of cliffs (That climb only took about seven minutes, but it was the most difficult part, besides coming down). At the top, men had set up crosses and had placed candles – reminders of the devotedness of this Catholic nation. Beyond the crosses I could see miles of the Ajusco mountain range piled up underneath cloudy skies, just skirting the edge of the sprawling Mexico City.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Bussing to Mexico is the way to do it – if you’re broke
It was a gradual immersion into the Hispanic culture as my two traveling buddies and I made our way from Austin to Mexico City.
From Austin to San Antonio to Laredo and Monterrey, we transitioned from free copies of El Mundo beside the complementary Dallas Morning News in the Greyhound station, to Spanglish signs in the border town, and immigration officers that could only say in English, “You espeak eSpanish?”
The architecture gradually got brighter as well – from San Antonio’s mosaic-tiled buildings to Mexico City’s miles of hills covered with flat-roofed buildings of blue, yellow, pink and orange.
Once through immigration, we transferred to a Mexican bus company, Futura, which surprising was more comfortable – more leg room and a few movie feature (albeit in Spanish). The landscape was just as entertaining to watch go from arid, storm-covered plains to glorious mountains illuminated by the sun and arched by a rainbow (I don’t think the rainbow is a permanent feature, but you could have fooled me).
After a rough night of sleep (why don’t I ever remember to bring a blanket on these trips?) the three of us woke to the sun rising over Mexican volcanoes. Two hours later we arrived, hungry and tired, but richer then your common air traveler – both in dollars (at $100, a bus ride is half the price of the cheapest plane tickets) and in appreciation for the Mexican landscape.
From Austin to San Antonio to Laredo and Monterrey, we transitioned from free copies of El Mundo beside the complementary Dallas Morning News in the Greyhound station, to Spanglish signs in the border town, and immigration officers that could only say in English, “You espeak eSpanish?”
The architecture gradually got brighter as well – from San Antonio’s mosaic-tiled buildings to Mexico City’s miles of hills covered with flat-roofed buildings of blue, yellow, pink and orange.
Once through immigration, we transferred to a Mexican bus company, Futura, which surprising was more comfortable – more leg room and a few movie feature (albeit in Spanish). The landscape was just as entertaining to watch go from arid, storm-covered plains to glorious mountains illuminated by the sun and arched by a rainbow (I don’t think the rainbow is a permanent feature, but you could have fooled me).
After a rough night of sleep (why don’t I ever remember to bring a blanket on these trips?) the three of us woke to the sun rising over Mexican volcanoes. Two hours later we arrived, hungry and tired, but richer then your common air traveler – both in dollars (at $100, a bus ride is half the price of the cheapest plane tickets) and in appreciation for the Mexican landscape.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
my inspiration
I wanted to come to Mexico to write. The colors of the Districto Federal and the beauty of the ocean that I've seen in pictures are enough of a muse for any storyteller, and I knew that the stories of the people I would meet would be stories that need to be told -- maybe a poor coffee farmer living in Orizaba, a vivacious missionary couple starting churches in a avant-garde way in Mexico City, or maybe a family who can't afford to live in this country and are making their way toward the border -- these are the people I came here for.
So I convinced two adventurous gentlemen to come with me to see the sights and meet the people of Mexico. Now we are in the capital, housed by church interns who feed us well. And so the storytelling begins...
So I convinced two adventurous gentlemen to come with me to see the sights and meet the people of Mexico. Now we are in the capital, housed by church interns who feed us well. And so the storytelling begins...
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