Que le Vaya Bien

As soon as we arrive in DC later today we will be back to the race that is our life. Tomorrow we begin the moving process as we attempt to install ourselves into a new house. I go back to work on Monday. The kids return to school the week after that. Then it will be one long string of steps in our routine: lunches, school, work, PTO, baseball, gymnastics, etc. Peppered with great meals, good friends, time with family, small adventures close to home, of course. But there will be nothing to compare to this summer we spent in Mexico, for a long time to come.

Before we left Oaxaca we sat down with the kids and watched a slide show of our first six weeks in Mexico. We talked through each place and experience, trying to stitch them into memory. It is hard to believe that the days we spent sweltering in Merida were just over a month ago. We have packed so much into this summer, it seems to have expanded into ten. Our challenge will be to remember it. We have to accept that much of this time will be lost. Even last night Josie said to Jasper, “Remember the pizza we had at the top of the hill, with the pool?” He had no idea what she was talking about. That wonderful dinner, with the hippie Italians, of wine and pasta and pizza, while the kids swam in the infinity pool and the sun set over the Pacific, at Mazunte. That pizza place. “Oh yeah!” he said, unconvincingly.

Remember that summer in Mexico? Oh yeah, THAT summer in Mexico. That rich, full, fascinating, fun summer in Mexico. When Jasper was eight, and Josie was five, and their parents remembered why they were married ten years ago.

Que le vaya bien, Mexico.

And, si Dios Quiere…

Hasta luego.

Puebla

We are on our way home. After a stunning if not stressful drive over the mountains from Puebla, we miraculously found the Alamo Rental Car lot (after being stopped only once by an officer who falsely claimed I ran a red light and threatened to take my license), and had a smooth transition to our hotel by the airport. Over a late dinner of hot chocolate and salad last night, Jasper said earnestly, “This is like staying at the Ritz.” Our last three days in Mexico have served as an appropriate finale to a most remarkable summer.

We left Oaxaca on Saturday after saying goodbye to this delightful city and promising to return. It was a long drive through cactus forests and over mountains thick with pine, and we arrived in Puebla only at sunset. We were there to visit the family of Joel, the husband of my dear friend Denia. Joel left Puebla when we was 14, and has not returned in these 16 years. Two of his brothers have since come to the US and returned, but we are the first friends to visit. We arrived under strict order to spend at least three days and let his family take care of us.

After getting lost and several confused phone conversations, Joel’s oldest brother, Candido, found us at a Pemex station in downtown Puebla. He would escort us to his taqueria for dinner and this to his house to stay. Joel’s family (all eight brothers and sisters, his parents, and his 27 nieces and nephews) live in Tlaxcala, a suburb of Puebla, which would be difficult to find on our own. So we followed Candido, along with his brother, Carlos, and his son in law, Israel, in their VW Jetta back towards the highway. After some difficulty finding the right road out of town, Candido’s car stopped dead on the highway in the middle of a bridge. Peter jumped out and helped the brother and son-in-law push for the next 30 minutes, in heavy traffic, over the bridge, past the exit, on to the main artery to Mexico City and to the closest gas station. Our adventure in Puebla had begun.

We spent the next two days being completely pampered by Joel’s large family. We ate at Candido’s taqueria, of which he is extensively proud, and his brother’s taqueria, and his parents’ taqueria. They are all called Tacos de Guero (which means White Guy’s Tacos, more or less), because the family has lighter skin and has long been referred to as “gueros” in their neighborhood. The entire family participates in the business, an operation which demands their attention from 8 o’clock in the morning when they go to the market to purchase meat, vegetables, spices, sodas, until 1 am when they close up the shop. We spent many hours hanging out and watching everyone help out, from the ten year old grandchild to the 60 year old grandfather. Jasper was particularly impressed. Josie impressed us all by devouring a tongue taco. We ate so many tacos in those two days that Jasper, who never talks in his sleep, blurted out in the middle of the night, “Tacos.” We all dreamed of tacos.

In addition to eating a lot of tacos, we spent a lot of time hanging out. Candido has built a large and growing modest cinderblock house for his family, which currently houses him and his wife, three of their children, two son-in-laws, two brothers and their wives and children, and his parents. They gave us an entire room with two double beds for our convenience and comfort. It was amazing for me to watch Jasper and Josie immediately relax and make themselves at home. Candido’s thirteen year old daughter, Yessenia, was fast friends with Josie. Jasper immediately fell into playing with Yovani, who is ten years old and whose father spent the first seven years of his life in the States. The kids were happy to watch one of the three TVs that were constantly on, or play with the many toys in the house. They could have spent three happy days in the confines of those cinderblock walls.

But we also saw many of the sights of Puebla and vicinity, of which there are many. Everywhere we went we traveled with an entourage of siblings, nieces and nephews. We piled six people into a car, abandoning seat bets for laps. Candido said Joel told him to take us as close as possible to the volcano, Popo, which has been particularly active recently. After the assurance that it was 40 minutes away, we drove for an hour and a half across the valley and then up and up the flanks of the volcano, finally arriving at a small town that is known most for the delicious trout that are farmed there in the fast, cold waters of the snowmelt from the volcano. We toured the fishery and rode horses and felt humbled by the volcano. We also went to see the cathedral in Puebla, the center of Tlaxcala, and the many churches and ruins of Cholula. I was tickled to see Candido yawning in the car beside me yesterday afternoon. Apparently taking care of a bunch of gueros is more tiring than running a restaurant.

Peter took off on Sunday for his final week of field work up in Chihuahua. On Tuesday we finally bid our goodbyes, after a meal of homemade mole on their roof top, amid many tears of appreciation for the time together, and more promises of return, four hours later than planned, and started our journey to Mexico City and home. We pulled into our hotel late, hungry (for something other than tacos) and exhausted, so glad to have spent time in Puebla, and so happy to be heading home. 

Un Dia en la Vida de Oaxaca: Segundo Parte

Today is Sunday. It is Peter’s last free day in Oaxaca, so we intend to make the most of it. We start by sleeping in, waiting until the sky outside is fully light and quiet has returned to the garden after the din of daybreak brought by the feasting (and fighting) parrots. There is no rush on a Sunday like this. We have learned to have confidence that whenever we get there, good things will happen. In Mexico.

After a breakfast of pastries from the bodega on the corner (that are miraculously warm and crisp), eggs and coffee we send the kids off to play in the garden. There are two other American families staying in this complex. One of them has three boys between the ages of five and 10, and the other has a nine year old boy from Richmond, Virginia. As soon as they have eaten, Jasper and Josie disappear into endless games of super heroes and experiments with fire and fruit. Over another cup of coffee we thumb through the guidebooks and pick out a few most-recommended excursions. There are more than we could accomplish in a day, or even a week, but in the end we decide on: biggest tree in the Americas, best Sunday market in the region, most fun ruins to play in, and best Mezcal tasting road. By the time we get our things together we have about 10 hours until sunset. We can do this.

The family from Richmond (an Anthropology professor at VCU and his wife and nine year old child) have been to the ruins before and would like to return, so we make a plan to meet up with them at a good market along the way in a few hours. We pile into the rental car and set off on the road to Mitla. We have hardly left Oaxaca when we see the sign for Tule. A short drive down an access road and we come to what feels like a dead end at a parking lot so we park and get out of the car, leaving all water and food since we are here to see the largest tree in this hemisphere. How long can it take to see a tree?

The town is quiet with clean manicured lawns and gardens. There are many artisan items for sale, indicating a strong tourist economy. It is not difficult to find the main attraction. To the left of the main square and next to the cathedral we can see an expansive canopy towering just above the two story buildings in between. As we round the corner and approach the Arbol de Tule we understand immediately why people are drawn to come here. It is massive beyond imagination. Far shorter than the towering redwoods (no taller than the cathedral beside it), it is the girth that impresses. Over 1,000 meters in diameter, the tree could fill the footprint of a small city block.

We pay the ten peso entry fee and spend over an hour basking in the serenity of this colossal organism. There are forms and images in the burls and crags of the trunk and limbs, which a team of ten year old girls in official green shirts describe in loud voices using mirrors to indicate each feature. There is the face of an Indian, the reclining body of Christ, a deer’s head, a bird… We take pictures, gawk, snack on grapefruit and pomegranate from a roadside vendor, chat with other tourists. “Why aren’t there more trees like this?” Peter asks. While I wonder, “How is this one here?” Why was it not taken like the others? We are humbled by its existence and only leave once the kids remind us it is time for lunch.

After a snack of quesadillas and sodas we get back into the car and head a short ways up the same road towards Mitla, pulling off at the town of Tlacolula where we have been told the Sunday market is vast and fun. We weave through tiny side streets, following our noses and asking for directions, until we find a parking place near what feels like the town center.

It is hard to imagine how this market could be much different or better than the market in Oaxaca, which was intense. But as we approach the main streets, which have been shut down to traffic for the vendors, we immediately understand. There is a friendlier, small town tone that is bustling and welcoming. We do not find our friends at the church, but after another meal of taquitos and pulque we run into them magically among the throngs of people. We take another hour to shop and wander through the food market, taking in the sights and smells of raw meats, fruits, fresh bread, hot oil, smoke and chilis. The kids impress me by sampling all sorts of delicacies, from pigskin to tacate (a chocolate drink), encouraged by the older and more gastronomically adventurous nine year old. It is after three o’clock when we decide we should head to the next item on our list: the ruins of Yogul.

Yogul is a smaller ruin a bit off the beaten path, nestled into a high desert ridge near a string of caves where the oldest evidence cultivated squash (10,000 years old) was found. It was a smaller town, perhaps some sort of annex to Monte Alban. There are no large pyramids or monuments, but the site hosts a handful of restored dwellings, cave like crypts, mysterious ritual areas and a ball court. The most attractive feature is a network of stone walls that create a veritable maze, ideal for games of hide and seek and scrambling. There are no guides or guards to enforce rules (it was not apparent that there were any rules at all), so the kids are free to run and scramble over the ruins like their own private playground. It is late in the day, so we have the ruins more or less to ourselves. We take the time to hike up to the ridge, and are rewarded at the top with a spectacular view of the  ruins below, as well as the expansive corn fields and surrounding mountains. We descend and depart only once we are summoned by the piercing whistle of the only attendant on the property. It takes me a while to find Jasper (who has run off with his father and friend to explore a tomb on the far edge of the property), so we are locked into the parking lot. The attendant willingly lets us out, and we are free to move towards our final objective: Mezcal tasting.

The road to Mitla is riddled with artisan Mezcalerias. These are small Mezcal plantations that produce small batches of this alcoholic drink (from fermented cactus) using traditional methods. Most operations offer a brief tour with the tasting, and it feels like the Napa Valley of Oaxaca. We are eventually headed to the town of Mitla for dinner, but decide to make a quick stop at a roadside Mezcaleria that seems to be ready for tourists. We are not disappointed by the private tour and detailed description of each step of the Mezcal process: harvesting the cactus, roasting it on coals for six days, grinding it in a horse powered mill, fermenting, distilling, and, of course, drinking. In Mezcal, Peter seems to have found his new “palm wine”; he is thoroughly enamored. To me the drink tastes and burns much like tequila, only with more subtle flavors and a smoother buzz. I quickly become the designated driver, and we soon leave for Mitla, but not after buying a few bottles for the road.

In Mitla the sun is setting and the town is quiet, almost deserted, as the shops close down for the night. We peek at the ruins, which are next to the town center. There is more shopping, feasting on tlayudas (a large flat, crispy tortilla smothered in mole and cheese), and Mezcal tasting before we call it a night. We drive home in the dark along the single highway, straight west, back to Oaxaca, rapidly retracing our steps from the day. Traffic thickens as we approach the city which  is wide awake with the sounds of Guelaguetza: fireworks, marching bands, marimbas, horns, voices. But we are too tired to go out again tonight. And we don’t need to. Because in Oaxaca there is always tomorrow. 

A Day in the Life of Oaxaca - Part I

It is Saturday. Our only plan is to head to the Church of Santo Domingo de Guzman and adjoining museum and botanical garden, which are an easy walk past the Zocalo. The kids are not excited about this idea, but they consent to come along because I have promised to look for dowels which can be used as arrows for the bows they bought at the market yesterday. With the modest objectives of getting to the museum and craft store, we leave our house with the walled garden on foot at about 10 am.

It is about a 20 minute walk downtown with the kids. On the way we peek into shops, look for Volkswagen Bugs (Jasper is doing a photo essay of these ubiquitous “bolchos”), and greet most people with “hola” or “Buenos Dias.” The kids often get hungry on the way, so we stop for a juice or bag of chips to hold us over. As we approach the Center the sidewalks begin to fill and the traffic picks up in the street. There are more hotels, restaurants and “artesanias” for tourists. We feel like we are moving towards something fun.

At some point I happen to look up and notice that we are outside the Museum of Textiles, which I have heard is wonderful but have never seen. It is an inviting and beautifully renovated, large, airy building with exquisite weavings hanging on the walls and an open courtyard with several women demonstrating the art. We spend a few sublime moments drifting through the quiet galleries before the kids become antsy and begin playing hide and seek behind the tapestries. I remember that a friend of a friend has recommended the San Pablo Cultural Center, which she described as being right next door. We walk 30 meters down the block to another elegant, more modern building in which there is a touring Calder exhibit for children. “El Circo (circus) de Calder.” We spend nearly two hours playing with wire and balance, making tiny people out of corks and paperclips to play on tiny circus equipment, and watching videos of Calder working (playing!) with his little wire inventions. When Jasper and Josie refuse to leave, Peter and I sit in the café in the courtyard and drink mochas with Oaxacan chocolate.

When the kids finally agree to leave (after securing the promise that we will return next week), it is after 12:00 and time for lunch. Instead of heading uphill for Santo Domingo, we turn left towards the markets. There are two large covered markets downtown: Benito Juarez and 20 Noviembre. The first has acres of artisans selling their wares, the second specializes in all kinds of food. We are in search of food, so we walk briskly through Benito Juarez, past rows and rows of people selling bags, cloth, curtains, shoes, belts, toys, DVDs, jewelry, shirts, dresses, pants, pillows, and anything else you can imagine.

Then comes the food. Handmade cheeses, fish, tortillas, tamales, chapulines (toasted crickets), mole of every color (mole negro, colorado, amarillo, verde, chichilo, coloradito, and mancha manteles), pastries, nieves (colorful, flavored ice)… and meat. We turn down the meat aisle into a room filled with smoke and noise. Two long lines of grills give off intense heat and aroma as attendants call to each potential diner, promising them a good price and great cut. Deep red strips of steak, richly spiced sausages and tender strips of pork lay out in front of each grill, raw and waiting to be selected for lunch. Every stand seems identical, but the throng of shoppers bustling up and down the aisle with baskets in hand are scrupulously inspecting the meat before pointing out the one of their choice to be grilled before their eyes. One stand actually has booths and we collapse into the first seat we see. We agree to purchase a kilo of meat for 120 pesos, having no idea what that will entail. The waiter soon brings us a sizeable platter of grilled meat, several hand made tortillas, and little platters of pico de gallo, cucumbers, onions and guacamole. The meat is tender, not too spicy but flavorful. It is fantastic. We savor every morsel, crossing our fingers we will not regret taking such liberties with “street food.”

After lunch the kids and I head home for our siesta and Peter walks up to Santo Domingo to actually see the museum we had intended to visit. Jasper and Josie spend a blissful hour crafting arrows out of the dowels we had managed to find at a craft store on the way home, while Peter learns about all the cultures and history of Oaxaca and enjoys a few unique hours on his own.

By early evening it is time to head downtown again. It is the week of Guelaguetza, a massive cultural festival that draws dancers, musicians, and tourists from all corners of Oaxaca (and people from all over the world). Peter has found a free outdoor marimba concert and saved us seats, so we hop into a cab only to go six blocks before realizing it will be quicker to walk. The streets are clogged with traffic. We get out and walk towards the Zocalo and beyond Santo Domingo, through sidewalks that are teeming with people. Many are in traditional dresses (some performers, many not), others are dressed up for various events (many to do with the festival, some not), the rest are obviously tourists and revelers, here to appreciate all that Oaxaca has to offer.

We find Peter in the front row of a concert that has just begun. Ten children, ages 12 to 18, are expertly manipulating the mallets on two exquisite marimbas. They are the regional prodigies, winners of a national scholarship to study the marimba in order to preserve the art form, They play through several traditional songs, and with each new piece the audience gasps in recognition and delight. Some of these songs we have already come to recognize after only a week here. Jasper and Josie are rapt for only a song or two and then squirm out of their seats to go practice shooting their toy arrows against the church.

After several songs we pull ourselves away to tend to the kids, walking towards a street a block away that seems to be hosting a parade. Standing on our toes with the children on our shoulders we watch as a dozen or more delegations from towns and ethnic groups all over the state dance down the road, accompanied by large marching bands, gigantic puppets, stilt walkers, fireworks. The costumes are all bright, colorful and replete with flowers, and food fabric, but they are each unique to the region, as are the dances. It is well past dinner time at this point and we know we should be feeding the kids, but it is difficult to pull ourselves away.

Finally, hunger dictates and we move back down to the Zocalo in search of dinner. It is difficult to move through the park past the endless sea of bodies, but we manage to find a table at an affordable restaurant right on the square. We settle in to drink, eat and watch as more dancers, more musicians, more performers of all kinds drift past. Women and children approach the table again and again, selling scarves, necklaces, candy, toys. It is nearly 10 pm when we finish our meal of tlayudas and decide to call it a night. But not before picking up ice cream at one of the three “Michuacana” ice cream shops on the square. The Zocalo is still crowded, with no signs of slowing.

At home we collapse into bed, exhausted, dirty, sticky with the remnants of so many treats, our heads buzzing with the noise from the day. And we wonder if every day could be like this in Oaxaca.

Oaxaca

Oaxaca is good at any time of day.

At 7 each morning a flock of parrots arrives to feast on pecans and awake the dead. The air is cool, around 70 degrees, and the sky gray but promising.

Our apartment is in a small complex of about ten units nestled in the garden behind the house of Dona Teresa. She advertises her rooms as “An Oasis in the City,” and it is an accurate description. The simple, clean apartments, surrounded by a stone wall and lush vegetation, are filled with tourists and ex-Pats, mostly Americans, who are here for more than a week and less than a few years. There are two families in the apartments adjacent to ours who have children between the ages of five and ten. They have been here for a couple of months, one spouse conducting research while the other holds down the fort. We leave our doors open and the kids dart in and out of kitchens, play with the adopted street dog, snack on fruits and vegetables doused in salt, lime and chili. One family is Mexican- American and based in San Diego but very experienced, connected and astute at navigating Mexico. They have already escorted us to the markets and told us the best places to get a cheap meal.

After a morning of tending to breakfast, shopping, laundry, cleaning or whatever needs to be done, we can wander up to the Zocalo (main square) for a meal or just people watching. This week is the Gueladuetza, the annual cultural festival which draws musicians, dancers and artists of all sorts to the city to perform and exchange ideas. Lovers make out in the shade of kapok trees. Ancient women pedal crafts, small children push candy and cigarettes, and men of all ages circulate with guitars and marimbas playing for pesos and selling self-produced CDs. We could spend all day moving in and out of churches, galleries, and markets, sampling sweets and savory fried pastries. But eventually we tire and return to the apartment for a siesta.

At the hottest time of day it is still quite pleasant, but warm enough to warrant a retreat indoors. Josie sleeps, Jasper reads and I write. We rest as much as possible in a place with so many ready distractions. I insist on an hour of “quiet time,” which is usually easily extended into two, as we gather strength for the evening.

On our first night in Oaxaca we walked to the Zocalo, about 15 blocks or a 15 minute walk. Nothing prepared us for the throngs of people we found there. Families, couples, tourists, vendors, musicians, students. It seemed like everyone was out, eating, playing music, listening, talking, dancing, with no particular objective or destination. The plaza in front of the cathedral was crowded with vendors selling balloons. For ten pesos you could buy a 6 – 20 foot long cylindrical balloon. Dozens of children ran back and forth in front of the church launching the balloons into the air and chasing them before they crashed into an unsuspecting passerby. Our kids purchased two and joined in the fun. We then bought beers and ice cream and sat on the main square listening to a marimba duo until the kids seemed to fade.

The following night we struck out again, this time for an exquisite dinner of black mole at a recommended restaurant (La Olla), and then a walk around town. We came across a free jazz performance outside the Santo Domingo cathedral, a demonstration of didgeridoo in an artisan gallery, fireworks, dancers, stiltwalkers and endless streets filled with crafts and musicians with plenty of visitors to revel among them. Again we returned home only once our children could no longer stand on their own.

We are here for over a week and will doubtlessly continue to explore the city of Oaxaca in a similar way, with no danger of running out of things to do. We will also go to Monte Alban, and Teotitlan del Valle, a mezcal tour through the countryside, more ruins, and other attractions within an hour's drive, of which there are many.

When it is time to go, we will be ready but hardly finished. Doubtlessly we will have to brace ourselves for the shock of returning home to a world without flocks of parrots or Zocalos, where time races instead of standing still.  

Travel Fatigue

We have been in Mexico for 33 days. In that time we have slept in nine hotels and two apartments in 10 different towns. We have visited three Mayan ruins and four beaches. We have swum in six swimming pools, two oceans, two rivers and one cenote. We have driven more than 3,000 km over the course of more than 30 hours. We have eaten out at least 60 times at more restaurantes, comedors, cocinas economicas, and cafeterias than I can count. I don’t even want to think about or admit how much money we have spent.

 So we are tired.

The kids have been skeptical about this whole travel thing from the start. They sensed our enthusiasm and were willing to go along for the ride, but it is clear they would have been just as happy hanging out at the PG pool all summer. I have been so proud of them, trying new foods, optimistically packing up bags and looking forward to each new destination, jumping in to each new body of water no matter how deep or murky. But every outing and adventure has taken a bit of cajoling, usually ending with enjoyment and gratitude that we made the effort. Josie has consistently taken more convincing and has a lower tolerance for things like sand, wind, sun, heat, cold, bugs, etc. However, in the end even she has come along for the ride stoically and delighted in the journey when all is said and done.

But we are tired.

The kids talk mostly about home these days. Josie and Jasper have been intensely planning her birthday party (which will be in October), putting together lists of guests and a schedule of events. Jasper continues to perseverate on what pet he wants to get when he gets home (how he has decided on an iguana), where it will live, how he will take care of it. Every time we mention a family member or friend they say, “I can’t wait to see them! When are we going to SEE them?!” We have been looking at pictures from home every day. Before we left we had been “homeless” for a month, so they are really ready for a space they can control and a routine they can predict.

Peter continues to work relatively long days. He had four days of vacation with us (during which he worked a bit every day), and during the trip down to Chiapas he was able to relax and enjoy the journey, but it has been a long stretch of balancing work and family. He is looking forward to riding his bike to work, getting caught up on emails and other projects that demand his attention, digging into analyzing and processing the work he has done here. It will be good to have separation of work and home again (not to mention just HAVE a home).

With the exception of one delicious four hour stretch in San Cristobal, I have been with my children for 24 hours a day this entire vacation, many nights sleeping in the same room or bed. At Mazunte the other day Peter and the kids were happily engaged in building a sand castle, so I said, “I am going to go out and swim alone for a bit.” What decadence! By the time I made it beyond the breakers I heard a delighted, “Mama!” as Jasper came bounding out to join me, thrilled to have his Mama to himself. Sigh. This time has been a gift, and I have enjoyed nearly every moment with them, trying to soak it in and store it up for the year to come. But I could use a little time to myself, or at least to something else. My mind has started to drift back to my classroom, my students, setting up the new house, getting the kids set for school… I am starting to transition.

And yet, we have two more weeks. And there is so much more to see and do.

We arrived in Oaxaca two days ago, and there is so much more to say on this topic. The city is both soothing and stunning. Every moment is met with a new encounter with a fascinating person or beautiful artifact or delicious experience. The temperature is perfect. The streets are clean and quiet while being filled with people and music. We have just begun to scratch the surface of exploring this place, and I have been told we will never want to leave.

My greatest challenge now will be getting the kids to continue experiencing and appreciating where they are now and not get caught up in where they want to be: back home with their friends, family and things. How can I keep this place from getting lost among the others? How can we all make sure we remember?

I guess I’ll just keep writing.

"My Kids"

They are growing before my eyes.

At home I hardly have time to notice my children. I spend every week day focusing on my students and measuring their growth meticulously. I take pictures, write notes, and record scores for 25 students, ending the year with a lengthy narrative description of each child’s growth. For my own children I am lucky if I remember to ask them what they did at school each day during the short car ride home from aftercare before I start making dinner and urging them to do their homework. On the weekends we try to take pictures with the hope that someday we will have the time to sit down and appreciate them. Once in a while I am stunned by what my kids are able to do or say. How did you learn that? As everyone warned me, I feel time speeding by with increasing velocity.

But this summer I can pay attention. I am with them. While Peter routinely puts in 12 hour days between field work, meetings, and keeping up with email, I am with my children 24 hours a day. I have one in each hand as we walk through the streets of each new town. We can snuggle first thing in the morning, before bed, and any time in between. I can talk about what they want to talk about (Jasper has been preoccupied with “bunnies” and wants to spend hours thinking about what kind of rabbit hutch he is going to build when he gets home… and Josie continues to be obsessed with Avatar.). When they ask for help, I say “yes” and oblige. We play card games. Read books. Craft lengthy stories about mermaids trapped in glacial lakes. Since we are travelling and staying mostly in hotels, there are no meals to be cooked, no dishes to do, no laundry to be washed. I do not talk on the phone with friends. I read and write only when they do, or when they are sleeping. I am available. We are together.

Usually when one observes something continuously it is difficult to notice subtle change. But this morning I could perceive each child as taller, thinner, and more solid than they were yesterday. Their hair is longer, their skin darker. The lilt of their conversation has become more complex and mature. Jasper complains constantly of growing pains, and it’s no wonder. He is shooting up like a weed. And Josie is keeping up with him, threatening to overtake him in height and weight if he doesn’t eat more. She now runs for pleasure, racing back and forth in whatever hallway, street or field she can find. Jasper swings his machete like a true campesino. They have both mastered the crawl and breast stroke. I swear Josie hardly knew how to swim in June.

So I watch them. I am free to just sit and observe, like an anthropologist, trying to commit to memory their words, trying to interpret their facial expressions and gestures for some deeper insight into the secret society of siblinghood.

The Road to Oaxaca

            The town where we spent our final days in Chiapas is called Nuevo Paraiso (“New Paradise”), and in many ways it was just that. The Sierra Madre range of Chiapas boasts lush cloud forests, a temperate climate, an abundance of rivers, waterfalls and springs, and warm, resourceful people who are welcoming to visitors while not being preoccupied with them. We enjoyed our few days at Comun Yap Nop Tic, following Peter into the field, swimming in rivers, and spending time with his colleague’s family (whose wife was hours away from giving birth to their third child, but nonetheless helped me do laundry, prepared us a meal and escorted us to the river to swim). However, by Thursday Peter had completed his work with the collective, and he was eager to begin his few days of summer vacation. So we loaded up the car and headed south and west to the Chiapan Pacific coast.

            After an eight hour drive through the Sierra Madre we stopped in a small beach town that was recommended by a co-worker as a beach town with reasonable hotels and palapas (thatched roof bars on the beach) serving cold beers and fresh fish. We rolled in to town with plenty of time to swim in the warm surf and scope out the scene. Since it was the eve of Peter’s birthday, my first gift was to assume full responsibility for securing a good room according to his list of requirements (relatively quiet, on the beach, plenty of bed space, a bungalow if possible). I compromised with a nice, quiet, clean room on the second floor with two double beds and a great view of the water. All of the beach front rooms came with fans and no AC, but it seemed sleepable with the stiff breeze coming off the water. I didn’t think twice about moving our things in and joining Peter and the kids on the beach.

            We had a typical dinner of cheladas (lime juice and beer) for us, chocolate licuados for the kids, and grilled shrimp and fish, along with a sunset swim. We then returned to our room for showers and bed. Peter was the first to notice that the many open windows, gracefully concealed by wooden slats, did not have screens. “Do we think that’s going to be okay?” he asked, using the marital singular and swatting a mosquito on his neck. By this point we had unloaded a lot of our things, used all the towels, and basically trashed the place, so changing rooms seemed like a huge inconvenience. The kids were exhausted and ready for bed. “We are not moving,” I offered as an answer. I mean, if they were renting a room with no screens, screens must not be necessary. Maybe mosquitoes do not fly so high. We would be fine.

            I sprayed everyone down with bug spray (except Peter, who refused) and we turned in. I was right. The mosquitoes were no problem.

            It was the noseeums that got us.

            In Gabon the mosquitoes were to be avoided because they carried malaria and dengue. But they were a minor nuisance compared to the noseeums, or “fooroos.” They came out at dusk and feasted on any and every square centimeter of exposed skin, crawling up shirt sleeves and into shirt collars, resorting to eyelids if necessary. Immediately they merely produced a red welt on the skin. It was about six hours later when the toxins set in that they finally elicited a painful itch that lasted for hours if not days. After a few months my body developed a sort of immunity to the bite and could process the toxins in a matter of moments, like a mosquito sting. But on many evenings when I was new to the African village experience they nearly drove me mad.

            For the first few moment of trying to go to sleep, I was reminded of Gabon.

            It was as if word passed around that there was a stupid gringo family sleeping in room 27 with the open windows and every noseeum on the coast of Mexico paid us a visit that night. Peter and I each slept with one of the kids and did our best to defend them. Every time Josie budged, I sprayed her with more repellant. Peter hardly slept a wink while Jasper scratched and tossed and turned. To top it off the sea breeze and single floor fan were hardly enough for the July heat and we were sweltering. I finally resorted to wrapping our bodies in wet sheets which offered some comfort. They dried off in about an hour, however, so I had to re-soak them several times throughout the night. At about three am I turned to Peter who lay wide awake and suffering in the bed across the room and said, “Happy Birthday, darlin’.” A suffered sigh was the response. At daybreak I was thankful that we were coming to the end of what will hopefully be remembered as our worst night in Mexico.

            We left as soon as possible the next morning, after a birthday breakfast for Peter of Huevos Mexicanos and another swim. Then we set off for another long drive along the coast. We were looking for a town by the name of Masunte which we could not find on any map or in any guide book, but which we were assured would be a perfect place to spend as many days as possible (by another colleague of Peter’s). We were promised turtles and dolphins and bungalows with views of the ocean. We only knew we had to find the town of Puerto Angel and turn left. Eight hours later we came to Puerto Angel, which seemed like a cute fishing village with a small spit of beach, so we turned left and kept going. As we proceeded north, each beach town we passed became progressively appealing, with well groomed cobbled streets and hand painted signs professing coffee frappes and artesenal mezcal. We were tempted to stop, since it was already past dinner time and the kids had only consumed a bag of Takis (think Doritos, but far worse) since breakfast, but we forged on for Masunte. We were so glad we did.

            As we pulled into Masunte we could tell it was magical. The clean, narrow streets and densely lined with cute shops and cultivated flowers. Situated in a cove of white sand and magnificent surf, it is a coveted surfing destination and traveler’s paradise. Most of the travelers here are backpackers who have set up camp under one of the many palapas along the beach. There are also dozens of hotels that offer bungalows, cabanas, habitaciones, cuartos, or whatever kind of accommodation you prefer. We followed the recommendation of the same colleague for a nice place that he claimed would be “hygienic and reasonable, very nice owner.” We wound our way down a series of dirt roads, following our nose more than anything else, past the cemetery and up a steep driveway to the Altamira Hotel.

            The hotel was so quiet I assumed it had gone out of business. But we eventually found the manager and were showed several bungalows for our choosing, each with beautifully canopied beds with crisp sheets and broad windows (with screens!) opening towards the ocean. 500 pesos a night. Or about 40 bucks. We chose one further down the hillside and closer to the beach with a double bed for us, and a loft with a second bed for the kids. The many windows had screens, and each bed had a white mosquito net, so we were in business.

            We first had to execute a quick “surprise party” for Peter, which Josie had been obsessively planning for days, complete with balloons, noise makers and a disco ball. Josie and I sent Peter and Jasper down to the beach while we put our things away and set up the party. When they returned we yelled Happy Birthday, had a scavenger hunt for his presents (including a new machete to add to his growing collection), and had a miniature two minute dance party with the disco ball. Done. By the time we finished it was nearly dark, the kids were starving, and Jasper was scratching like a street dog. His fooroo bites seemed to be getting worse, and the bugs were coming out. I climbed back into the car and set out for dinner and drugs.

            Further down the dirt road I found an improbable pizzeria run by a collective of aging hippie Italians and ordered two pies to go. I then retraced our steps to the town center and found a pharmacy where I purchased antihistamine and calamine lotion and more bug spray. An hour later I returned to the bungalow with cold beer, hot pizza and strong medicine, all of which were consumed lustily. We sang Happy Birthday to Peter over Snickers bars (there were no candles to blow out), and called it a night. We tucked ourselves into our mosquito nets and fell asleep to the sound of the waves and congas coming up from the village below.

            As soon as we arrived in Masunte we vowed to stay as long as possible. We have three days to swim (with caution and gusto; the waves are strong and undertow alarming, but the kids are having a great time inventing new sports like “Wave Jumping” where they launch off of Peter’s shoulders over a wave before it breaks), hike, wander the streets, enjoy the traveler food (crepes, pastas, and coffee drinks in addition to the fish tacos, empanadas and licuados), and take a trip to see the sea turtles up close. It is hot, but there is plenty of shade and water to keep us cool, and I can safely say that at this moment there is no other place we would rather be on Earth. Fooroos and all. 

Buena Vista

We are staying at a coffee cooperative and training center called Comun Yap Nop Tik on the edge of the Triumfo Biofera Reserva in the southern section of the state of Chiapas. We arrived two nights ago with a desire to be closer to the rain forest and taken care of (after a miserable night at a crummy hotel in a small town a few hours north), both of which we definitively are. We arrived late in the afternoon unannounced and were welcomed by a team of farmers and community developers who were enthusiastic about meeting our needs and welcoming our family. One of the associates claims to have read Peter’s papers and be a big fan (We are a bit incredulous, since Peter hasn’t exactly published any papers, but anyway.).

We are staying in a bunk house which is intended for farmers and students when they come for lengthy trainings on sustainable farming and business development. Peter is to spend two days visiting coffee plantations and measuring carbon in uncultivated forest types near the reserve. We are here to finally, actually go with him into the field, and get as far into rural Mexico as we can.

 The first night we were the only occupants of the spacious women’s bunk room, taking over most of the 18 beds with our many bags of souvenirs, laundry and sundry equipment. The kids immediately settled in to setting up their beds, making forts and exploring the various grounds and buildings of the training center, happy to be out of the car and hopefully in one place for a few days. We had a homemade meal on the porch of a neighboring house/ restaurant. Over dinner we talked with a junior at Cornell who is here conducting research on a fungus blight for his senior thesis, and a trainer by the name of Jose Alfredo Alvarez who pledged to do whatever he could to make Peter’s time here productive. They worked out a plan for the following day for us to visit some of the true forests in the heart of the reserve so Peter could get a sense of the carbon in the uncultivated native forests of the Sierra Madre. We would accompany him, at last, and get a sense of what his field work looks like in living color.

The following morning the plan was for the team to meet at 8 am, have breakfast together at 9 am, and leave by 9:30 am in a truck for a small village and coffee plantation further up in the mountains. I had the kids washed, fed, dressed and sunscreened at 9, but at 9:15 the meeting was still in full swing and I knew we were going to be behind schedule, so I released them to play and settled in to checking email, etc. We finally moved over to breakfast at the restaurant at 10. At 11 we learned that the truck we were planning on using would not make it up the mountain, so they had called for another which was on its way. At 1:00 pm we finally loaded up the original truck (we would meet the better truck further up the road) and were on our way. Jasper and Josie piled into the back of the pick-up truck with us, thrilled to be bouncing along the dirt roads in the open air, pledging they were going to tell EVERYONE about it. They were giddy about being able to “touch the clouds” when we got up into the cloud forest.

We climbed up and up and up, stopping for another 45 minutes at a river to await a four-wheel drive vehicle to take us up to the furthest community and coffee plantation at nearly 2,000 meters. When the better, much-needed truck arrived, we continued on our way, another hour up winding dirt roads that seemed impassable until you saw a Volkswagen Beetle parked outside a small cinderblock house off the road.

Finally we reached our destination. A small coffee grower’s plantation called “Buena Vista.” And the vista was more than buena. It was maravillosa. The entire valley from which we had come was stretched out below us, mountains all around shrouded in the afternoon rain clouds, the Triumfo Reserve behind us. Josie and Jasper ran ahead of us towards the farm house and patio, and Josie came back calling, “Mama, there’s a restaurant up here!” Even after I explained that this was someone’s home, and they had just prepared a table to share their food with us, she asked where the menu was. Don Ciro (age 94) and his family served us a lunch of chicken soup and handmade tortillas. Only the rice had been purchased; everything else was from their small farm. While Peter headed into the hills with the men to measure trees and talk coffee, Don Ciro’s granddaughter walked with us through coffee and fruit trees, pointing out plants and animals along the way, trying to keep up with Jasper and Josie who were scampering far ahead.

We spent another blissful hour chatting with Don Ciro about his purchase of this land in 1955 for 700 pesos, and his life working on a German coffee plantation before that, until the team returned and we were ready to descend. It was 6 pm and the sun was already behind the mountains.

The ride down was colder and more exhausting. When we reached the juncture where we had picked up the four wheel drive truck, we took a right turn instead of heading down the mountain, and began to climb through a different valley. Jasper noticed and was immediately concerned. It was 7:00 by this time and well time for dinner and a shower. We were sitting in the bed of the truck, so we couldn’t ask about the change of plans. After another 30 minutes, we approached a massive coffee plantation with a veritable village of workers at its heart. A stark contrast to the beautiful farm we had just left, this plantation had rows and rows of wood and sheet metal shacks crowded around a central fountain. It was nearly dark when the truck stopped at the center and we were told that we would have to wait there for “a few minutes” while the driver shuttled some of the workers further up the road. The kids were hungry, exhausted and a little shell shocked. We were escorted to our guide’s niece’s house. She was not expecting us, but managed to pull together some quesadillas while we sat and watched The Dictator in Spanish and chatted with his family while awaiting the car.

An hour later the truck arrived and we loaded once again. This time I sat inside the cab with Josie and Jasper, who finally fell asleep as we crept back down the mountain through the dark. We arrived at the Comun after 10 pm, covered in bug bites, filthy, hungry and beyond tired. But we had touched the clouds, and it was well worth the rocky landing. 

Change of Plans

Two days ago we were ready to settle in to Villaflores for a few more days. We had developed a reasonable routine of running errands, watching cartoons in Spanish, hunting down the closest “alberca” (swimming pool), and jumping on the trampoline in the Centro before dinner. We had begun to run into people we had already met and be invited into houses for conversations and café. This small city with no other gringos felt like a comfortable place to hang out and get into the groove of life in Chiapas.

But Thursday we were just coming back from the post office and preparing to head out to the alberca called “El Paraiso” (with no less than 10 pools and a dozen concrete water slides) when we got a call from Peter letting us know that plans had changed and he needed to be in San Cristobal (a popular tourist town about two hours north) for a meeting the next day. “How would you like to pack up and go to San Cristobal tonight?” Sure. Why not? We headed back to the hotel and started packing.

Josie likes to know the plan. She starts each day by reviewing the schedule and making sure she is clear on how things are going to progress before she even finishes breakfast. She is a girl after her grandmother’s heart, with lists and agendas, keeping us all in order and on time. However, on this vacation, she has had to learn to be flexible, as have we all, as we bend to the weather, illnesses, other people’s plans and preferences, and just life in general.

When I told the kids the change of plans they said, “Okay,” with hardly a question. In the past they would have balked, asked why we needed to leave so suddenly, complained that we weren’t going to get to do the activity I had promised. Traveling seems to have taught them that even if you aren’t going to do what you had planned, you will probably be doing something cool in any case, so just relax and enjoy the next bend in the road.

We packed up in record time and made it to the alberca for a lunch of fried fish and an afternoon of “swim at your own risk.” Once Peter returned from the field and we loaded the car, fed the kids, and were on our way, it was about two hours later than originally planned. We didn’t leave until 7:30. As we approached Tuxtla Gutierrez and I realized we would be driving an hour (at least) through the mountains at night in the rain, I proposed we stop in Tuxtla for the night instead of continuing on to San Cristobal. Change of plans, again. The kids expressed only relief at being able to get to a bed sooner, no questions or complaints.

Yesterday morning on the way to San Cristobal we stopped a few times, once for over a half hour to buy textiles from Mayan women along the side of the road. Two weeks ago they would have whined in the back seat, resisting our tendency to follow whim and begging us to get back to the plan of driving to San Cristobal. Today they waited patiently, eventually getting out of the car to examine the beautifully embroidered fabrics and try some on, tasting the passion fruits they sold by the dozen, and waiting until we were ready to roll.

Today we wandered through the streets of San Cristobal with particular destination. We took a picnic up to the steps of the Iglesia de San Cristobal. We sat in the main square for over an hour and Jasper made friends with the kid selling peanuts. We take our journals and a deck of cards with us everywhere, just in case we are not sure what to do with ourselves. But usually we find something to do. Even if it is not exactly what we had planned. 

Killing Time in Chiapas

We have landed in a small municipality by the name of Villaflores in southern Chiapas, with a population of about 100,000. There are a handful of hotels, and the typical bodegas, taquerias and talleres on every corner. On our first day here we took a walk to the Centro to see what we could see. Every time I explained our situation (“My husband is working here with an environmental NGO for a week and I need to find things to do with my kids to pass the time.”) I was met with a sympathetic smile and shake of the head, “Ohhhh, well, there’s not much to do here in Villaflores.” After two days of hunting for diversions, I can safely confirm that they are correct. More or less.

So we are officially no longer tourists. There will be no sightseeing this week. Unfortunately, nor are we residents, since we will only be here until the weekend. There will be no fully settling in and getting into a routine. It is therefore my duty and challenge to drum up whatever activities will keep my children (and more importantly myself) sane over the next four days.

Of course, there is plenty to “see” and “do” here. I could pass many happy hours wandering into small shops and chatting in Spanish with the folks who run them, sitting in the Centro and writing, reading, taking photographs, listening to the cacophony of cows, roosters, dogs, motortaxis, and blaring radio advertisements that make up the music of any small city. But my children have not lived long enough to realize the beauty and intrigue of the small details of exploring a new place. Josie keeps saying, “I want to do something ACTIVE.” They are not content to just observe.

On Monday we passed the time setting up our hotel room, making a forest of origami bugs and flowers, and watching cartoons in Spanish on the TV. After an extended siesta we headed to the Centro, just three blocks away. As we sat in a cafeteria drinking Frescas, we noticed a woman setting up a trampoline in the main square. When we inquired about the trampoline she told us for 10 pesos the kids could jump for 15 minutes. I paid, the kids jumped, and by the end of the 15 minutes Jasper had made friends with the woman’s son, also eight years old. I pledged to bring the kids back every night, as long as they wanted. That’s 15 minutes of the day I won’t have to kill.

Yesterday we went on three “outings,” as Josie calls them. First we walked four blocks to La Quinta activity center which we had discovered while wandering around in an EcoTaxi (a rickshaw with a motorcycle on the front) the evening before. We expected to be able to play on their playground and paint some pottery in a little art workshop they have for a small fee, but nothing was open. No one was there, despite assurance from a woman the night before that we could come any time in the evening. We waited for an hour, playing War and exploring the property a bit, and then gave up.

We then hopped in another EcoTaxi and went in search of a swimming pool we had heard about at a place called El Recreo. When we got there we learned it was a restaurant with a pool, but closed for the day. The workmen told us about another pool at another restaurant further out of town, so the cab driver shuttled us there. We arrived to find a clean restaurant with a small and slightly strange smelling but charming pool surrounded by cow fields and mountains. We ordered drinks and dove right in. After bringing the aguas frescas (mineral water with fresh juice), the waiter delivered a full meal of fried fish, shrimp soup, empanadas and pickled pigs feet, none of which I had ordered. When I protested, he explained that the drinks come with a meal. Still a little confused, we enjoyed the food and hoped we wouldn’t be charged an arm and a leg. I panicked for a moment when I looked over and Josie had devoured her lettuce and tomatoes, which we were supposed to be avoiding. When the bill came, the waiter was correct: the food was included with the cost of the drinks. I left a large tip before heading home to the hotel. All in all a successful outing (as long as no one gets heinously sick from the lettuce; we avoided the pigs feet for a variety of reasons).

After a siesta, we headed out to La Quinta to try to paint pottery again. Once again we found the place deserted and waited for an hour and a half. I taught the kids Solitaire. We sat and watched the road. The kids took pictures and videos with Jasper’s iPod. More sitting and watching. Finally, Josie declared we had waited long enough and we set out for the Centro to find the trampoline lady. When we stopped off at our hotel to drop off our things, the evening downpour arrived and we were trapped. Determined to get outside, the kids put on their raincoats and headed straight for the roof. They spent the better part of an hour singing and dancing in the storm, soaked to the bone and perfectly content.

This morning our big outing was to retrieve our laundry from the lavanderia. The kids wanted to head directly back to the hotel to play, but I lured them to the Mercado with the promise of buying something. We found the post office, and a place to recharge our cell phone with minutes, and a place that sells machetes (a source of great fascination for Jasper), and place to buy bowls and spoons for our morning cereal, and a place to buy little cokes in glass bottles, and suddenly it was an hour and a half later. First outing achieved.

When we are not out wandering, Jasper and Josie are content to just hang out in our hotel room and play. They have become much better at playing imagination games together (the origami bugs had many adventures before dissolving into litter). I make them write in their journals every day (or almost). Jasper is reading up a storm and plowing through chapter books faster than I can supply them (we’ve picked up a few at the rare English language book store). Josie is satisfied with the handful of early readers we brought, finding more joy in rereading them once they have been mastered. Jasper has been assigned the role of photo-documentarian, and is becoming adept at capturing images of our daily lives here.

And so we pass the hours in Mexico. Without pyramids to climb or beaches to enjoy, Villaflores is a good place to be. The streets are clean and the people are kind. There is more to “see” and “do” in this little city, I am sure. And we will take it all in slowly, while Peter works from 8 am until midnight most days, until the weekend when we take our leave. 

South to Chiapas

I suppose we felt ready to leave Merida, with its many parks, attractions and conveniences. Peter has a great cohort of colleagues there, and it felt as if we could be comfortable in such an agreeable city for a long time, despite the heat. But on Friday that time was up, and it was time to head south.

Over the last three days we have logged more than 12 hours in the car as we wound our way south to Chiapas. First we drove along the western coast of the Yucatan peninsula in the state of Campeche. Cattle ranching is prevalent and palm plantations dominate the landscape. The air remained hot and thick until we could finally make out the shadow of the mountains on the horizon. We made it to the tourist town of Palenque after dark. On Friday night the town was thrumming with activity. We found a hotel right on the main Zucalo, or town square. We ate dinner on the balcony while we watched an old man play a synthesizer for couples dancing the Marimba.

The next morning we left at 7 am knowing we had a long journey to San Cristobal ahead of us, and many sites to see in between. We stopped first at the waterfall Misol-Ha and had breakfast at the restaurant in the park before exploring the falls, which were particularly robust after the heavy rains of the night before. We were among very few other tourists, all of them Mexican. Then we headed on to the falls of Agua Azul, another hour or so down the road. This park is more developed and teeming with tourists, restaurants and vendors. But you are able to swim at several points in the falls, and we were delighted to find the water cold, clear and reminiscent of New England. Before we left, Jasper bought his first machete (a gaudy specimen with a Jaguar carved out of resin on the handle and his African name, “boudilou”, which means machete, engraved in the sheath), and ate a dozen fresh empanadas.

Our third destination of the day was the ruin of Tonina, just east of the town of Ococingo. It is part of the “Ruta Maya” but slightly off the beaten tourist path, so generally less crowded and more obscure, despite the fact that it contains the tallest of all the Mayan pyramids. Our guide at Chichen-Itza advised us to go after seeing how hot, miserable and disinterested our kids were in ruins that they could not physically explore. “You must go,” he assured us. “They can climb to the top.” We didn’t reach the turn off until after 3 pm, and had planned to continue two more hours south that evening to San Cristobal. The kids protested with threats and complaints. Josie going so far as to declare, “I HATE Mayan ruins.” We assured them that they had no control over the situation and were going anyway. And we did.

We reached the park at 3:45 and were thrilled when they didn’t charge us for entry. A caballero offered the kids a horseback ride to the ruins, which we gladly accepted. Tonina did not disappoint. It rises right out the jungle, built partially out of the mountain on which is stands, taller than any other peak in the near vicinity. The children were free to climb and explore as they wished, getting lost in maze like dwellings, scrambling up steep stairways and over short walls. Josie quickly admitted that these were “awesome ruins,” and that her parents were right. Unlike the structures of the Yucatan, which were built from an unlimited supply of limestone, this pyramid was constructed of river stones. The French only began studying this one in 1983, so there is still much left to uncover and reconstruct; it is easy to imagine for a moment that you are an explorer uncovering a ruin for the first time.

As we approached the fourth terrace (there are seven), a guard declared the ruin closed for the evening.  Jasper and Josie were happy to continue scrambling back down, and Peter convinced them he could run to the top for a quick look and picture, so only I was disappointed by this lost opportunity. However, the view even from this vantage was stunning, and the night calm and cool, so I could hardly claim hardship.

We decided to go with the flow of the evening and stay the night in an ecotourism cabana next to the ruin. We were the only guests there for the night. After settling into our one room cabin, we were the only patrons at the little restaurant. We watched the sun descend over the mountains while enjoying beers and a home cooked meal of carne asada. After dinner we joined the family who runs the lodge as they attempted to feed an errant pelican who had showed up on their property the night before (we were a six hour drive through an impressive mountain range from the ocean; we had fun exchanging theories of how he had arrived at their rancho). I offered a can of tuna fish for the cause. Sadly, the passive creature would accept no alms, as he floated listlessly in the neighbor’s flooded temazcal bath (or sauna). The exercise afforded us the opportunity to get to know our hosts, however. And one of the boys taught Jasper to use his machete. This was perhaps the best evening in Mexico yet.

This morning we left before breakfast once again, this time determined to stop in San Cristobal for a reasonable visit, and reach our destination before dinner. The drive was nothing short of stunning. The mountains are close, intimate and dramatic. Jasper commented, “Now I can say I have seen the jungle.” It is slow going along the mountain roads because they are steep and winding, but mostly because they are riddled with “topes,” or speed bumps at any place where there is a dwelling (which is in most places). But it is difficult to feel in a hurry amongst these lush, cool mountains. We spent only a few hours in San Cristobal, where we should have spent days wandering the streets, sampling the coffee and chocolate, perusing the amber and embroidered textiles. This is one city to which I would love to return.

Tonight we are staying in Tuxtla Gutierrez, the large and more modern industrial capital of Chiapas. Tomorrow morning we head further south to the small town of Villa Flores. I still have not been able to find it on the map, even though Peter insists it is there. And we have stayed the night here because Peter’s homologue is concerned that we would not find the town on our own unless he takes us there personally. The next few days will be a far cry from our time in cosmopolitan Merida, or our weekend journey along the tourist route. But we are up for the next, and perhaps most difficult, leg of the adventure. 

Comida

When traveling with kids food can be tricky. While I want them to try new dishes and be adventurous eaters, I also feel a responsibility to keep them healthy. (I mean, who wants to travel with a sick child?) I have taken a two-front approach to food: When we are out, we will eat Mexican food (or Mexicanized American, for example, Mexican pizza, or tortas), and when we are home, we will eat “comfort foods.”

Yucatan food is rich and not too spicy, so it’s pretty easy to find foods for their bland American palates. Josie and Jasper have consented to Sopa de Lima (a sour, salty chicken soup), Pavo Relleno Negro (turkey in a pumpkin seed sauce), Poc Chuck (grilled pork with an orange and achiote sauce), as well as their fair share of refried beans, rice, fresh fried fish, and tortillas, tortillas, tortillas. They have the right attitude about each meal, and have not once asked for “Chicken Fingers.” Okay, Josie asked once, but when I said it was impossible, she happily settled for “dedos de pescado.” Luckily they have an aversion to onions and fresh tomatoes, so I don’t have to worry about them eating the fresh (and potentially contaminated) vegetables with each dish.

In addition to the healthy meals, I also allow them to try Mexican junk food. While Coca-Cola, admittedly, is hardly Mexican, I have an affectionate association with Coca Cola and tropical travel from my time in Honduras, and I believe it has medicinal properties. So they have had more Coke in the last two weeks than I am willing to admit. (Amazing how a hot, fussy kid will perk right up with a little caramel coloring and high fructose corn syrup.) They also have sampled a wide variety of “churros,” or chips, that are usually some heinous shade of orange, contain obscene amounts of MSG, and come in fluorescent green packaging. My rule is that if it is not American, I might consider letting them try it. Any form of homemade Mexican dulce (“merengues” as they are called on the beach) are free game as long as they seem reasonably sanitary.

Then there are the comfort foods. I don’t want every meal to be a new experience, so in this first two weeks I have kept our home meals simple and familiar. This is also because I have no idea how to cook Mexican food. (I entertained the idea of trying, after reading a few chapters of Like Water for Chocolate, and having an extensive conversation with an old grandma in the market who sold me squash flowers and assured me that it was “muy facil, rapido” to make any Mexican dish; but my meek attempt came out like a generic stir fry) Last week I went to the grocery store and stocked up on Cheerios, milk, pasta and tomato sauce, ham for sandwiches, and frozen chicken nuggets. All Josie wants is a bagel and cream cheese, but so far I have had no luck in procuring a bagel (and I am not willing to bake in this climate with so many good bread stores on every corner).

Today is the Fourth of July. I had almost forgotten the holiday, and planned on ignoring it, until the kids realized that it was coming up and started planning an elaborate celebration. They have been rehearsing their “show” for three days now, and we have invited over everyone we know in Merida for a “cook out cabaret.” On the menu? Potato salad, hamburgers, hot dogs, watermelon. Tomorrow we head west to Chiapas and I don’t expect we will have as much gringo fare at our disposal. Perhaps Sopa de Lima will soon become a comfort food. And, of course, there will always be Coca-Cola.

The End of Week 1

It could have been the ice in the coca-cola, or one of the many “aqua frescas” (fruit juice mixed with water and ice), or the Coktel de Pescados (fresh fish cocktail), or the Mexican sweets right off the cart, or the margarita on the rocks, or the green mango from the lady on the street, or the lettuce and tomatoes that come with most meals… In any case, we have not been conservative eaters. So on Friday night I succumbed to “Montezuma’s Revenge” (I will spare you the details, but it’s as bad as it sounds). I am glad that I was the first to fall, and I pray that Jasper and Josie’s digestive systems hold up well against the Mexican food. They have been adventurous eaters, which I appreciate. If we were here for ten days, we could avoid the ice and veggies. But two months? It’s a challenge to avoid temptations. I took advantage of my convalescence to write down some remarks on last week’s wanderings:

On Thursday we defied the heat and struck out mid-morning for the beach town of Progreso. It’s hardly a half hour drive from Merida, but took about an hour on an air conditioned bus which we caught in the center of town. It was an adventure in itself walking through the busy streets and waiting on the sidewalk for the right bus. Once on boards the kids settled in to looking out the window as we wound through the streets of Merida and out to the main highway north. An hour later we found ourselves in a beach town reminiscent of Rehoboth or Plum Island. We picked up sand toys and a wiffle bat at a beach store. We followed the signs for “Playa” past schools and mechanics, mercados and tiendas.

The beach was nearly empty of people, but jammed with bars and restaurants that provided thatched shelters for shade. We set up camp under one of these and spent the rest of the day swimming in the warm, clear, shallow water, eating and playing. Jasper found a seven year old boy from California almost immediately and spent a couple of hours playing baseball. Josie tracked down the one girl speaking English on the beach (her mom is from Merida but they live in Texas and are visiting for the summer) and made a best friend for the rest of the day. Vendors would walk by occasionally, happy to sell but not pushy. We enjoyed over priced drinks and fresh fish from the bar, and bought several souvenirs. We returned home in time to meet Peter for dinner at 6 pm. A day well spent.

The following morning I promised the kids a more relaxed “home” day, but knew they might kill one another (or I them) if confined to the house and pool all day. Jasper complained of a headache and fatigue, but I didn’t trust his symptoms, so I gave him some Gatorade and ibuprofen and told him to put his shoes on. Once we left the house he perked up, especially when he saw the hardware store near our house where he might be able to buy a machete (the only souvenir he wants). We stopped inside to inquire about the machete, which looks like an entirely inappropriate possession for an eight year old, but is only 60 pesos. I told him he could return later and discuss the purchase with his father.  

We walked five blocks east down 59^th street which is a wide boulevard lined with “Flamboyan” trees. The trees are in bloom now and overflow with bright red flowers. The zoo was free, un-crowded, and filled with large animals in small cages. We got very close to the Bengal tiger and lions, the giraffe and hippopotamus, the puma and jaguar. There was a small train that we could ride for a peso, and a rickety chair lift, and bumper boats. By noon we declared Mission Accomplished and dragged ourselves home through the heat to enjoy a siesta and swim in our compound.

Saturday, while I tried my best to lay still and hydrate, Peter took the kids to the new National Museum of the Maya, which is enormous, modern and comprehensive. They then went to a party with Peter’s work colleagues, returning home once again exhausted and happy.

By Sunday morning I had started a round of “digestive anticeptics” and was feeling much better, so we rented a car and struck out west for the coastal town of Celestun. The mangrove marshes attract a wide variety of sea birds (mom, I am so sorry we didn’t have a bird guide in English… but they were beautiful), most notably flamingos. In December and January when the birds gather to court and mate, it is a sight to be seen. At other times of the year, it is still a respectable ecological destination. For about 15 dollars each we took a boat tour to see the pelicans and mangroves up close, as well as “ojos de aqua,” or fresh water springs that bubble up in the middle of the salt marsh. After the tour we headed to the sandy beach for several more hours of kite flying, swimming, drinking (including a strangely tasty mix of tomato juice and beer) and eating (this time everything was recently cooked and hot, or “purificada”) with strolling mariachis to serenade us.

So we have completed our first week in Mexico. We entertained the idea of leaving Merida today, in order to join Peter on his site visit to an ejido and reduce the next leg of our journey to Chiapas. I am looking forward to the mountains, and a smaller town, and whatever adventures lie ahead. However, I am reticent to relinquish our comfortable house and pool, access to the beach (no Mexican beaches here on out, most likely), and the easy diversions for the kids. I suspect the coming weeks will be more impressive, and less comfortable. Happy to have a few more days in paradise before they begin.