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.
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