Beautiful and Terrible

Thank God we're here in Palenque. I'm wiped. A fellow in SC said that the road here through the mountains was full of twists, turns and speed bumps. No kidding.

It was a five hour midway ride on a road narrower than the Forks of the Credit and without shoulders. Sometimes the road had sunk and collapsed -- sometimes chunks had fallen off to the valley below. Gads. There were signs all along the way. "Danger," "Slow Down," and "Road Washout." There was even a sign that said, "No Parking on the Curve." As if.

But before the sun set, the mountains and valleys were gobsmacking. All green and rolling as far as the eye could see. We passed hundreds of homes and a few towns along the route. Most were makeshift affairs -- looking as though the builder had gone out for lunch and had forgotten to return. Lots of corn patches and banana trees.

Almost every home had a sign advertising Coca Cola, juice, purses or beads. After the sun set, the driver put his brights on. We had front row seats to the show and for two and a half hours my eyes were glued to every washout and precipice. Sometimes we passed large trucks bigger than our bus. I wondered which one would roll over first.

The photos are taken though the window as we jolted along.

Off to bed now. The ruins tomorrow.

Street Scenes

There are two stories about the indigenous people here. One is that they share many of the same problems Canada's native peoples do. But there's another story. Today we stumbled into a huge market with hundreds of stalls stuffed with purses, scarves, belts, hats, blouses, toys and other hand made items. These people, as Bob said, are also industrious business people.

Sure some are beggars -- but many women sell their wares in markets too. We saw men playing with and carrying their children too. So I'm reminded that often none of what we see is the real story.

Being here in Mexico for the last four weeks has been an an amazing experience and adjustment. I remember arriving here in San Cristobel where there are hardly any stop signs or stop streets. I had a horrible time getting the courage to cross streets and now after five days, I can hop across in no time. In the morning we wake up to crowing roosters and gonging church bells.

I've had 62 hours of Spanish classes here with homework in the evenings. Tomorrow is my last class. It was good to hear from my instructor today that I can carry on a conversation on any subject. I have to be told these things. I don't have that kind of recognition and understanding myself.

Tomorrow we go by bus to Palenque, then on to Campeche, Merida, Cancun and home.

The photos are of street scenes, women's indigenous clothing, one of our favourite restaurants, Tierra Dentro and the indigenous peoples' market.

See you in Palenque __

Sumidor Canyon

This canyon is actually a 25 km. long reservoir between Tuxla, the capital of Chiapas and a smallish not very interesting city, Chiapa de Corzo. The reservoir was created by damming the Rio Grijalva for the production of hydroelectricity. We skimmed the length of the rio and back -- such impressive towering rock walls on either side of our boat.

One of the fellows on our boat had a Che Guevara tattoo on his arm and when a helicopter flew overhead, the boat driver said, "Here comes Commander Marcos, the leader of the Zapatista revolution, to get us." So history is still on the mind of many here.

We passed crocodiles, herons, vultures, a religious grotto and moss growing from the cliffs in the shape of a Christmas tree.

Along the way we also passed a government organized river garbage pick up. I guess garbage is pitched or somehow ends up in the river at Tuxla and forced into crevices by the river's powerful current. Infrastructure here is still sketchy.

Tonight I'm tired. No reason really. Being here is a bit overwhelming. It's soooo quiet in Caledon and so not quiet here in Mexico. Sidewalks are often so narrow that you have to scoot onto the street to pass -- but the streets are full of cars racing along -- so that's tricky too.

We've been busy, too, with Spanish classes. Also I'm such a shutter bug -- everything is fascinating -- tile roof tops, different types of dress and visitors here from all over Europe -- hardly any from the States and we've met a couple of Canadians so far. Food is Mexican of course -- but tons of salads and lots of great little coffee shops.

We sometimes pinch ourselves as we pass guitarists, singers and drummers on the street -- the air suddenly full of action and sound. I don't know how we'll adapt to home!

From Time Immemorial

The Museo del Amber de Chiapas, housed in an old partly restored convent in San Cristobel has immense pieces of amber ranging in colour from a dark burnt sienna to a golden honey colour. 30,000,000 years ago, bugs, earth and wood became embedded into the resin of pine trees. If you are lucky (I am still looking), you can find amber containing a complete insect.

A miner labouring for a whole week will only dig 250 grams of crude amber. A tradesperson will scrape, sculpt, sand and polish the piece into a final product -- a very long process. Dark amber is the most expensive.

Amber is mined in the Balkans (my Mother-in-Law gave me a necklace and earrings mined from the Balkans), Russia, Australia, Canada and right here in amber mines just outside the city -- the main tourist street here has more amber stores than you could count. Prices are fixed with no haggling.

I'm including a photo of the convent terrace recently rescued from an overgrowth of trees and weeds and also one the original unrestored courtyard walls of the 15th century building.

A Magical Evening

Last evening Bob and I sat in the chapel of the Na Bolom (House of the Jaguar) listening to film director, composer and pianist, Richard Pierce Milner play his beautiful compositions. The evening sent us both into another place because we sat only feet from the grand piano in the darkened room, mesmerized by Richard's music, the candle light flickering on the ceiling, the intimate setting and his composition introductions. There were just two of us in the audience. Unbelievable.

Check out Richard's site for a photo of the awesome setting.

http://richardpiercemilner.com/

A Time to Leave

We climbed the many steps to the Guadeloupe church for its spectacular view of the city. As we approached the entrance, we heard the familiar sound of a mass in progress. I thought a service at 2 pm on a weekday afternoon odd -- but nonetheless, good Catholic that I am, knelt on kneelers at the back of the church. Before long, Bob, who is more astute then me, whispered in my ear that we'd happened into the middle of a funeral mass. I beat a hasty retreat to a corner of the church grounds, on the way out noticing mariachis in their silver studded outfits tuning their instruments.

After the ceremony, the cortege edged slowly down the stairs and along the street to the waiting hearse. The mourners followed the hearse down the street to the sombre strumming of the mariachis' guitars.

A Time to Change

The situation with the indigenous people is as complicated here as it is in Canada. I think they are better off than our natives though. The majority of the population here in San Cristobel are of indigenous origin, many of them living in what is called, "The Ring of Misery" around the outskirts of the city -- each community with it's own dialect and specific dress. Before the 1994 Zapatista uprising, native people were abused and killed by the government for all sorts of insignificant reasons such as cutting down trees. Their language was repressed.

After the uprising, though, their plight gained international attention and the government now supports the native peoples monetarily and builds bilingual schools in their communities. But the legacy of discrimination and abuse lives on in the peoples' habits. Parents have many children because more kids mean more sellers and beggars. Kids often don't attend school. If their fathers are still around, they beat their kids if they won't work the streets. Kids sell and beg from perhaps age five on up.

The grandfather of one of my instructors had 26 children that he knew of. One of her uncles at 89 fathered two children with a women of 30. Hard to believe -- but my instructor doesn't seem to be a weaver of tales.

Most native men don't stick around to raise their kids and mothers take their kids to the street with them to women selling stuff. Birth control is available to women but mostly they don't use it. Children aren't as emotionally close to their parents as ours.

Every May, the government, in its wisdom, gives money to families. Soon it disappears for drink and partying. The difference as I see it between here and at home is that the native people are close to cities, so food prices aren't exorbitant and the industrious ones work at semi good jobs in town and send their kids to school. Although the schools teach both Spanish and the communities dialect, the kids don't want to learn Spanish.

The little girl in the photo looked about six. She was carrying a baby in a blanket on her back while she begged for money. One of my instructors said that the beggars and sellers often put on an act of impoverishment that is not the reality.

A Time to Savour

Chocolatero, Ivan Arce Santana learned the art of Belgian chocolate making in Tizaayuca, Hidalgo, Mexico. He makes delicious chocolates and drinks of many flavours in his little shop near the distinctive Iglesia de Guadeloupe high on a hill overlooking San Crisobel.

Chocolate pods are fat and green -- when dried, brown and a bit shriveled like the ones in the photo.

Ivan taught his wife the art of chocolate making. Then she divorced him and opened her own shop down the street. There's a moral to that story.

A Time to Wait

Just before leaving Oaxaca, I booked a facial at a little place down the street from our home stay. I arrived at the correct time and waited for the esthetician. After 15 minutes I asked the receptionist if I actually had booked an appointment. She said that I had and that the esthetician had gone shopping. The receptionist called the esthetician on her cell phone.

Well, I thought -- Mexico works in strange ways. The absent woman finally arrived, I eased onto the table and she began her work. After a few applications of this and that, she applied a mask of clay, added wet compresses to my eyes and left the room. I heard the outside door open and shut. She'd disappeared. I lay there for a half hour listening to the sounds of silence, the clay well hardened and cracked when she returned. She asked me without a bit of irony if I'd enjoyed the rest. I hardly knew how to answer her. My dose of time the Mexican way.

Mexican Times

We've been here in San Cristobel de las Casas for three days. Like Oaxaca, the city is surrounded by mountains. But I'm shocked by the number of indigenous children who are working here. Today I saw a girl who couldn't have been more than six carrying a baby on her back while begging for handouts. It's very sad. Little kids hardly two years old wander around the until late at night. It's hard to say who their mothers are amongst the the plaza vendors.

This school is as well run as El Instituto and at I'm feeling comfortable with the language. My instructors have suggested I connect with Latin Americans in internet chat rooms to become more comfortable with speaking. What would we do without the internet?

The next few blogs are about different aspects of time in Mexico. This way the photos will be easier for you to sort out.

In Oaxaca the mid day meal, "la comida" is served at 2 pm. This timing totally broke up the day. So we decided to have only breakfast at the home stay. This started a pattern of having only breakfast and maybe a salad later on. With three hours a day walking along with Spanish lessons, my clothes are getting loose. Hurray!

We're going to a piano concert tonight. I hope all is well with you.

Over the Sierras

This morning we flew over a few Sierra mountain ranges and eventually wound our way by taxi to San Cristobel de las Casas. It's quieter here and the buildings smaller and less stately than Oaxaca. Most of the Mexicans are indigenous of Mayan ancestry.

I didn't realize until wandering around the town this afternoon that this is the heart of Zapatista Army of National Liberation. In 1994, the news of the uprising in this area was very disturbing. But over the years, the people's struggle with the Mexican government to gain control over their own resources has become peaceful and has gained a measure of international support.

It's lovely here -- indescribably so at the moment. Pics are of the flight and the town -- an unlikely electrical repair shop in need of repair itself, a kid of no more than seven, who instead of being in school is shining shoes -- the photo with pillars is our new school. It feels more like a resort.

Hasta pronto,
Lynda