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.