It would have no excuse for coming to faraway Mexico after two-day trip just to reach it and spend the whole vacation in exhausting traveling around the country: sleeping occasionally, sometimes without bite or sup, getting wet under rain instead of warming your bones somewhere in Acapulco with a cool drink in hand... But try to excuse me, dear reader.
Before a big journey one comes across a question of choosing a man to share it with. I can't say that my fellow travelers got into line. Actually, the plans are kept in a big secret until the departure. The preparations can be hidden from anyone but the family. So, when I told my relatives that my Mexican holidays would be extremely far from «lazy» resting and most likely full of hardship suddenly I found a companion... my mom, who had some experience of traveling in her youth, including canoeing. Thus, she became a full participant of everything that happened later.
Hola, Elisita!
Juarez airport. A crowd of greeters hid the cutest creature of glowing Mexican hearts - Elisa, with whom we had worked at one of summer camps in the USA five years ago. The trembling girl's hand had thoroughly traced the Russian name on the cardboard. I would never forget those moist eyes with and irrepressible desire to start immediately on any direction, cross the length and breadth of the Mexico map leaving a job and usual life for the sake of that journey.
We drove the car with one working light along the hissing, honking motorway, swallowing exhaust gas and persistently breaking through the megalopolis smog towards the hidden amongst the slum and the skyscrapers dormitory area. There was a house near the church of fanciful triangular shape, where Elisa lived with her mother Eugenia and stepfather Manuel.
The Day of the Dead altar was still in the living room. On November 1 and 2 the Mexicans celebrate their national holiday in remembrance of the deceased. The ancient Mayans and Aztecs believed the souls of the dead to come back on these days. The burning candles faint glimmer was falling on the photographs of Elisa's father and her little brother, who had passed away before her birth. Fruit, sugar skulls, cross-shaped bread and a great number of marigolds lay by the glasses of tequila and Jamaica flower water. The statuette of Mexican saint patron Virgin of Guadalupe crowned the altar.
How I Gulped a Cactus Down
Neither a bottle of balsam, nor books about Russia, nor sweet halva, but ushanka - an army cap with ear-flaps - became the loveliest gift for my mulatto, who was basking in sunshine all the year round and had never seen a glimpse of snow. Having armed with all sorts of spoons and ladles, Elisa started a process which was impossible to stop until our last day in the country. Cook by trade she let the guests into the features of Mexican cuisine, spared no chili pepper, flavored every dish with lemon and made us hostages of peaceful as I had naively supposed maize. Besides one dozen ways to cook it tasty and another dozen to eat raw people made tortillas which were used instead of bread. Among foodstuffs maize had almost complete monopoly on the tables of Mexicans, even world-famous brands like Coca Cola comported themselves in a modest manner. Further ahead, there were crunchy grasshoppers, fried cactus from the national emblem, a kaleidoscope of fruits and vegetables you never heard about, and the hit of the season - dried agave worms. What a taste, I took the bait! My notions about what was edible and inedible were dispelled once and for all.
Cradle of Mesoamerica
Our travel route was little comparable with the time that we had, three weeks threatened to burst at the seams. Somehow or other it was impossible to linger. But one attraction, a monument of pre-Columbian Mesoamerica in fifty kilometers from Mexico City, made us stay there a little bit longer. These were the ruins of the ancient City of the Gods.
Indian legends run as follows: it was Teotihuacan where the Gods came after the Flood to create the world over again. The city had appeared more than 2000 years ago and became the first cultural, political and trade center in all Western Hemisphere. But in the 7th century something had happened that made dozens of thousands of people to leave that place forever. The best way to think over the reasons of their stampede was to stroll through the Avenue of the Dead: a wide street about three kilometers long, both sides kept remains of houses and temples. It led to the Pyramid of the Moon, but our contemplation of its grandeur was brief.
The eagle screech and jaguar hissing resounded over the valley so loud and close... THEY were approaching us at lightning speed – merciless to anybody who set foot on their land: souvenir traders. They were blowing clay whistles warning about the start of a hunt for us. We would be wiser if poked at their most expensive silver adornment with the words “one peso”. Instead of it I looked in the eyes of the leader that provoked him even more. Trying to save and without that meager wallet contents we showed a clean pair of heels, literally flied upstairs to the Pyramid of the Sun. As a reward there was a stunning view to the ancient city from the top. Not without reason this colossus was one of the three world's biggest ancient buildings. 70 meters – an inaccessible height for the most importunate trinket traders!
Manolovna's Childhood
Everybody has places which are held dearest of all – where we spent our childhood. This is priceless when another person trusts you with them. In the hope to see Elisa as a little 5-year-old girl, walking with her parents along the mountain pass of Sierra Madre, we went our way to the North, state San Luis Potosi.
Landscapes changed: soil formerly forced poor saplings and cacti impregnated now with moisture and went to another extreme - impenetrable tropical forest. Houses were also varied: simple village huts with a dozen of piglets, donkeys and hens, sitting on a rusty old pickup. But the people... folks were open and friendly, same as everywhere. They fed us, shared smiles, gave many pieces of advice and always wished to be well at parting. Sure, it was none of its doing, but when Elisa introduced herself to the taxi driver, it turned out that Montato's family was honored there. Her grandfather, whose great services had been passed over in silence by the modest girl, not only supported his own family of 13 children, but managed to help others. One of the streets in the neighbor town bore his name. Though it wasn't accepted in Mexico to use a special patronymic name like Russians do, we began to call our traveling companion Elisa Manolovna in token of respect for her.
What we were interested in hid deep in the jungle or lay in the mountains. Sometimes we took a collective taxi. Highly amusing thing: four or five passengers accept you packed into a standard car. And I beg you, anyone belted up?! But the fare was like in a city bus. We could suffer a little. In some places the only variant was to hire a personal driver. Prices were affordable if he didn't take us for gringos.
Making our way through the ferns and lianas, sugar cane plantations and banana groves, we came to the Bridge of God. Erosion had formed a huge slit in the rocks. Now stream fell down from the very heights, creating picturesque turquoise lagoon at the foot. Before the day faded away, we found another waterfall and the ruins of an old factory not far away.
A Mythical Town in Jungle
Very long ago my mom read me “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz”. My Lord, I liked that fairy-tale! Nobody knew what exactly I was short of next rainy morning: courage as the Cowardly Lion was, brains, so desired by the Scarecrow. Or maybe I had stopped feeling my heart like the Tin Woodman. Somehow or other, the only dream was to get into the thickets and do my best to find the Emerald City... It might be strange enough that somebody had even build a surrealistic castle in the midst of a wild jungle far from any civilization. A magician of the XX century Sir Edward James was capable of anything.
An incredibly rich British poet, who was on friendly terms with Picasso and Dali, he had the reputation of a world-famous patron of arts. Discovering that primeval corner, full of wild orchids, waterfalls and flying parrots, James fell in love with it forever and reared an extraordinary architectural ensemble.
A mythical town began with a big hammered gate. We entered to the enormous labyrinth, cosmological fantasy which wasn't worth even trying to understand, just disappear and lose our way for several hours. Quaint bridges, passages and arches hanged in the air. Paths meandered far and wide: met and confused, ended with nothing, led underground or opened houses with secret rooms. Prancing mosaic snakes guarded a paradise garden of stone lilies, concrete pumpkins and cacti. We walked up leaves of the huge flowers to the moss-grown cap and then climbed the circular stairs. Its steps receded into the sky, making feel giddy when suddenly ended with emptiness...
Those unsolved puzzles had been left by Sir Edward. And we should solve another conundrum – how to reach the Cave of Swallows, a great creation of nature. That was a huge karstic hole with the height comparable with the highest skyscrapers.
What Birds Were Silent About?
A little truck with an open body opportunely appeared us on the dirt road, giving a hearty welcome. The higher it went up the thicker fog and twilight were, rain drops became colder, a hope to see the swallows – more shadowy. For a long hour we tried to reach its commune, where several million birds lived. A gloomy reserve warden looked askance at the unexpected guests. He noticed that all normal swallows stayed at their nests in such weather; evidently, we should do the same. But a 20 pesos award fee brightened him up a bit. The man took his dog, an electric torch and advised to keep pace.
We came down the steps until finally set against the fence. Beyond it there was the Cave of Swallows – a huge sinkhole 376 meters deep. It looked like a black gap from above. The cave must be popular among speleologists and base jumpers from the entire world, especially after James Cameron had chosen this place as a shooting area for his Sanctum movie. But there was some other reason to visit the site – one could watch a myriad of winged birds corkscrewing up to the sky and going back to their nests in the evening... What uproar arises, you can imagine! We could just fancy that because the weather was non-flying and normal swallows (we made sure that all cave residents were absolutely normal) stayed at the nests.
Port of Tampico
A great joker Arturo, Elisa's cousin, gave us a bag of candies. It turned out that they contained chili. Our mouths burst into flame. Hospitable, calm and quiet Ciudad Valles was the last stop on the way to the Atlantic Ocean. Masses of factories arose outside the windows while the seaside approached. Dread chimney-stalks continuously burned the sky, flinging puffs of fire and thick smoke out of its hells. That was petroleum. Most part of the black gold from Mexican oilfields came to Tampico, dozens of companies processed it.
Local authorities tried to sleek town as if it was a seaside resort: erected white stone hotels, put umbrellas and deckchairs into every small space in the beach. But certainly, it didn't lack port romance. Mexican Naval Forces were based on the mouth of the river Panuco. Tampico harbor was one of the biggest in the country. It was full of life even in the red glow of the setting sun. More and more steel monsters were landing under deafening honks of tankers and dry cargo ships. Hoisting cranes depreciated machinery cracked wildly threw heavy packs and boxes into the holds. Dockyards worked hard, just a couple of sailors stood apart smoking cigarettes.
We met a miserable raccoon near the lighthouse. The poor wretch had lost one leg and on top of all troubles felt hungry, so it finished a handful of cookies with a certain satisfaction. It turned out that the raccoon wasn't along on the pier – the whole family of six small animals joined the feast. Fishermen fed them with fish, that's most likely, indeed.
Town with a Smell of Vanilla
It was worth going to Papantla, the home of vanilla, to feel the difference between the real product and its synthetic substitute - vanillin. The air in the little town was thick with spice. But if somebody also wanted to smell like a bun, one could easily find amulets and beads made from brown pods on the main squire.
After a morning mass in the church all people gathered around a 30-meters pole outside. We were lucky to edge our way into the crowd and watch Dance of the Flyers...
With flute singing and throbbing drum beating five men dressed in national clothes climbed on the very top of the pole. Four of them launched themselves tied with ropes to descend to the ground. The fifth remained above dancing and playing a slow melody. This ritual had been created many centuries ago to thank the Gods.
Sneakers whiteness grew loathsome, making us wade through mud somewhere in suburbs. Still to be there and miss how vanilla grew would be vexatiously. However, workers on the vanilla ranch thought otherwise and refused to let us in. The mysterious boss on the other end of the line remained obstinately mute: not an answer, not a solution. We almost left when he called Elisa back!
The farm consisted of a greenhouse with rare kinds of vanilla and a garden of trees which seemed to do nothing with them. But its trunks served as supports for the lianas, full of green vanilla bunches. Lucas, an engineer who worked there, told a lot about his lovely plant: from the moment when he put a seed into the ground till the harvesting time. There would be much worry with it even then. While drying vanilla one must not to lose its culinary and medicinal properties.
Wet Notes, Wet Me
A new journey through time began; we left modern Mexico for the sake of mysteries hidden by thick tropical forest in the state of Veracruz. It was the vanished civilization of Totonacs, ancient city of El Tajin. Five ages of oblivion had been preceded by the thousand years of active development: building of temples, multilevel pyramids, palaces and stadiums for the ritual ball game. Looking at architecture, which is like no other, and evidences of cultural explosion, I felt that we miss it. This beauty is being slowly destroyed: by rains, by wind, by time.
We caught a night bus and reached Veracruz, another port city. It is mostly famous for the sea bastion San Juan de Ulua, which had been the most impregnable fortress on the Atlantic Coast for over 300 years. As the weather became worse, we had to continue our travel long before dark.
All the night long it was raining cats and dogs. The street with our hotel turned out to be flooded. Knee-deep in the muddy water we reached an Internet café, which certainly would be opened at any circumstances. No matter if volcanoes erupted, hurricanes rushed past its roof, even when the city of Coatzacoalcos was on the brink of destruction. However, a forecast didn't sound very optimistic: we were caught in a cyclone, which hit the country until the Caribbean Sea, so desirable. There was no point to continue that direction any more, only if to become divers until the end of our holiday.
We tried to run away from the rain and sat on the bus to another coast. The isthmus between the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean was just 300 kilometers. It appeared to be enough. But before we could see the stars on the clear sky I got soaked through again, even inside the bus. That lucky day we got a bus with broken windows and leaky top. But there weren't any clouds in Oaxaca, what a pretty thing!
Once Upon a Time in Tule...
Nothing new there – to meet countrymen in Tule. In case it was Russian Tule, but not the Mexican one. It was amazing, especially since we had seen a Moscow policeman Lev and Galina from Siberia a week before in the Post Office of Mexico City, hundreds of kilometers away.
Galya and Lev had already been traveling for the third year: Thailand, the USA, Mexico... A small town Tule attracted them with the same thing as us: there was a 2000 year old cypress tree near the old catholic church. It had the stoutest trunk of any tree in the world. To wrap around a giant's waist would be possible only with 30 people.
Branches and tumors of the Tree of Life reminded a lion, a deer, a turtle, a fish and a crocodile. You could find even more beasts, but just these animals’ figure in the Indian legend. According to it, long time ago, when all creatures were friends, they asked the Tree to save them from hunters. It sheltered them forever. The Mexicans who lived nearby loved their mighty neighbor and celebrated the Tule Tree Festival on the second Monday of October.
A little while afterwards we went to the mountains to see a waterfall, included in my homemade guide book as one of the most beautiful in Mexico. But the sight exceeded all expectations... It seemed to copy the illustration: a picturesque valley with flying birds became even more beautiful. But the waterfall, that 50-meters high avalanche of boiling water... remained stark as if it was frozen. This petrifaction had appeared just as lime water created stalactite caves. Nature needed thousands of years to form such a masterpiece.
Our bus was broken even though the Oaxaca city lights still glimmered behind the hill. We got another vehicle, an extremely cramped minibus. Well. Everything was numb, but in the morning we could forget about it as the dawn came on the sky-blue Pacific Ocean...
Heavenly Sands of Zipolite
Before to leave Zipolite, a fabulous nook on the coast where we lounged for almost two days, Elisa made no mention that people called this place the Beach of the Dead.
I guess we would still enjoy white caps on the waves even when knew about strong undercurrents dragged a passing bather down the hidden rocks. But the less you know the better you sleep. We stayed at a hotel where our Mexican had worked before. Her friends never took a centavo for a luxurious bungalow we lived in.
Hippies adore Zipolite not for the cheap fish and pearls. The old man with a cooler on his shoulder was passing us coconut ice cream, when all of a sudden some aboriginal appeared beside. Tattooed on both arms and body that dove-eyed person offered marijuana or “something stiffer”. He made it in such friendly manner. Local police shut their eyes to the fact that drug trade considered almost legal there. Moreover, soon we learned that Zipolite included to the list of social nudity places in Latin America. It was too late to be confused. Young girls topless were even great, but man's bald hips - let me off that! When such an individual passed by, pelicans became the most interesting thing in the world, fortunately there were a lot of them on the horizon.
In the lagoon of the Tonameca River we met a crocodile for the first time. A two-meter long caiman rose from the deep right by the boat when our guide Victor was rowing to mangroves, whistling. Animals didn't even try to hide: turtles, herons, iguanas and other inhabitants of fresh water.
Run from Acapulco
Unlike a small village Zipolite the city of Acapulco, one of the most popular world resorts, was on the peak of civilization: grand white hotels lined up in a row along the coast, guides shamelessly dragged tourists to restaurants and excursions, and so many people simultaneously tried to step into water that the ocean threatened to overflow. There were unimaginable traffic jams on the streets, but none of us seemed anxious to get stuck in the city. It was not so much a fear of missing five o'clock bus which became a reason of our hasty departure as a complete rejection of Acapulco, that godling of tourism.
But before, we took a ride on the launch to a small stone island. There was a Virgin of Guadalupe statuette under water nearby – a bitter reminder of the destroying hurricane of 1998. Acapulco often suffered from natural disasters. The last September wasn't exclusion: a tropical storm Manuel caused strong floods and landslides. The resort turned out to be cut from the continent, an airport and both federal highways were inundated. Destroyed bridges and houses along the river were still being restored.
The road between Acapulco and Guadalajara had a bad reputation. When it was late and the occasional car passed by, neighborhood gangs started robbing. Mainly they carried drugs to the USA across its land frontier. But trying to suppress competitors, drug dealers sowed fear in all controlled territory. Bads attacked passing buses, set passengers free from their money, jewelries and electronics. Every bullet has its billet. We fell asleep.
It was still dark, about five o'clock in the morning, when something woke us up. There was a great bustle in the cabin: uniforms were bringing everybody out. I could just catch sight of military men and other stopped bus in the window. They screened our bags, whereupon let us go. Such armed patrols kept order in all Mexico, we met them from time to time. The war between drug cartels, government troops and police were not over.
Lost World of Teuchitlan
The ruins of forgotten Guachimontones, the center of Indian culture Teuchitlan, had been hidden by jungle for centuries, until 1970. Nobody had assumed existence of such an important artifact in the state of Jalisco. The excavations of last 15 years had found a little in common with other Latin America's archaeological zones. Certainly, we couldn't drive past that wonder.
There were seven bus stations in Guadalajara. We took the coach and one hour later came to the town of Teuchitlan, closest to the site. Admission to the park was free on Sundays, the same in the majority of Mexican museums.
The ruins of Guachimontones weren't such impressive as Teotihuacan or El Tajin, but the form of its pyramids made them truly alien. All they were... rounded. The most noticeable structure, Circle 2, had 13 steps and rose up to 18 meters high. There were big fields for a ritual ball game and several rectangular platforms. Some researchers thought that the ancient city had been nothing but a cosmogramma, a model of the Universe.
Shortly about Alcohol Harm
Strangers responded to the Russians in different ways... Don't think anything bad: one of them fraternized, another took a photo together or besieged with questions about far and mystery north country. But once, a young barman Joseph, a pretty good fellow, put a bottle of Vodka on our table. Evidently, he expected jubilation from us.
Not only Mexicans, the whole world holds it to be a Russian national drink, forgetting of birch sap, mead and kvass.
This is a sheer mistake to think that Vodka does our nation credit. However, alcoholism remained a concern in Mexico too with the only difference that people there were “proud” of tequila. A home of the beverage – an eponymous city of Tequila - lay in our way.
The famous brand was produced in the state of Jalisco and four adjoining provinces. They were well-recognized due to the endless plantations of blue agave, resembling a pine-apple with two meters height leaf needles. That very plant turned into tequila after fermentation in its own sap and sugar, what was demonstrated to us in details in a small factory. A worker splashed (good gracious, they had too much!) a final product in shot glasses, tequila of all sorts: clear, the freshest, and then goldish in varying degrees of richness depending on for how long it had been infused in oak barrels. The guy taught us how to drink tequila in a right way – with salt and lime. Oh.
California #2
We continued our journey and got to Mazatlan on the Gulf of California. What was that city: a regular port, a fashionable resort, may be just an industrial base? It posed, hinted at luxury without shame of deep poverty. Tourists liked to visit nice sand beaches, modern hotels, bars and restaurants, which were open twenty-four hours a day.
But when you swung off the quay, paradise ended... Economic decline hadn't started the day or even the year before. The lifeless houses, all windows broken, were staring at us with their empty eye holes. The shabby two-store block greeted us with its faded colors. The rusty cars abandoned on the streets couldn't break the silence. Kilometers of graffiti stretched scarring with its random drips. Nobody had intention of painting them over.
But there also was another Mazatlan, an honorable gentleman stolidly presented with the historical center: sparkling stained-glass windows, richly decorated cathedrals, theater halls, carefully tended avenues. The city had many faces. The only thing which united all those different places was funny white taxi cabs looked like golf carts and jokingly called Pneumonia. The nickname had come from the local residents believing that a ride in an open-air car could cause a cold. Yet they were everywhere, including one as a sculpture on the seaside. We used one of them to reach the ferry, ready to go to the Baja California Peninsula.
Till recently I knew nothing about its existence. Cause Mexican California used to keep in the background of its upper half – the American one, burning with the gold fever in former times and flourishing due to the Hollywood film industry now. Those territories had not always belonged to the USA.
We spent a half day and all night crossing the Gulf of California, also known as the Sea of Cortez. The ferry had a cinema hall, a cafeteria and reasonable cabins. Though there was nothing better than just standing on the deck.
At six in the evening the westering sun dived into the ocean. Within minutes, no twilight, a clear moonlight night came. Day time was short there all the year round because of the closeness to the equator. Elisita was watching the stars, trying to imagine that summer nights in the place, where I had come from, were bright almost until the midnight. She fancied that there was a polar day in the Far North, when the sun might not fall below the horizon at all. And there were so many wonderful things in my country! May be, one day, she'll come too and I will show her my Russia. I guess, 6500 kilometers as we had during that journey, won't be enough then...
