Beach, Beer and Volleyball

The next 12 days (with the exception of a few) were spent more or less the same, with perhaps variations only in the nightly festivities, beach volleyball team make-up, or the combination people I spent my days with. Luckily, however, there was always a core group of individuals who, like myself, had unintentionally gotten themselves stuck in the vortex of the irresistible paradise of Tulum...

Basically, my days more or less consisted of the following: rolling out of bed once I heard the music playing and movement of people outside in the hostel's courtyard, generally around 8 a.m.; throwing on whatever clothes I had been wearing the previous night (or, if it had been a few days digging through my bag for those clothing items which seemed the least dirty) and heading out to the courtyard, squinting in the bright sunlight, water bottle and book in hand; placing my water and book on the table at an open seat, generally next to my friend Mark who was usually the first of the group to wake; grabbing myself a cup of dark, burnt, terribly acidic, of almost tar-like consistency coffee (yet somehow tolerable enough to keep me coming back for more day after day); eventually strolling up to the kitchen to cook myself some combination of eggs, veggies, toast or french toast, depending on the day; killing time before a noon-ish departure for the beach; spending the next four to five hours mostly playing volleyball, and if I wasn't playing or watching volleyball I was more than likely standing around chatting with a beer in hand, or frolicking in the crystal clear blue waters of the Caribbean Sea; then, I'd return to the hostel for a shower and out with the gang for tacos and beer across the street.

Sitting at the hostel tables during breakfast.

A view of the hostel from above.

In all actuality, the above paragraph really does sum up a typical day in my Tulum life. And although a somewhat simplistic take on my days, there was indeed some variation in my 12-ish days spent in Tulum. There certainly are some things deserving of their own little tales, even if written only for my own personal benefit of allowing me to re-live some cherished memories every now and again...

Sunday, my second day in Tulum, I had gone to the beach in the morning from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. in an effort to avoid any afternoon rains like those which had caught me off guard on my first day. That afternoon, back at the hostel, I planted myself in front of CNN on the t.v. in hope of updating myself on the elections, which at that point were to take place in only two days (oh, the anxiety!). I ended up in a conversation with the three other guys who were also in the room, only to find out that one of the guys, Joel, was from none other than good ol' Portland. Fortunately for me, that connection won me an invite to dinner that evening with a group of folks who I'd be seeing a lot more of in the days and weeks to come...

Joel had driven his Land Cruiser all the way down through--and across--the vast lands of Mexico from southern California (I think). He and Mark (from Tennessee), John (from England) and a few others had spent the days previous to my arrival driving the Land Cruiser down to the beach every day. By the time I came into the picture they had just lost their friend Jesse back to Detroit, which conveniently opened up a seat in the car that I was fortunate enough to take over. So, the day after our dinner outing, I was happy as could be cruising along with some new friends down to the beach, knowing that any potential feelings of loneliness that sometimes have a tendency to creep in after a few days of solitude were now long gone.

Perhaps the only thing better (well, at least equally great in its own right) than having new friends and a sweet ride to the beach, was having a cooler to take with us on our sweet ride to the beach. The cooler became an integral part of our daily routine in Tulum, as I learned quite clearly on my first trip to the beach with these guys (it had been in the back of Joel's car for his journey). Of course, I was imposing myself into the lives that Mark, John, Joel and others had already established there in Tulum, so I was content with doing things their way. This involved a noon-ish departure from the hostel and a stop by the local grocery store for some snacks, ice and enough beer to fill the cooler to the max. Life in Tulum was getting pretty rough...

The infamous cooler sitting at the hostel, waiting to be filled with beer (thanks to a borrowed photograph from Sophie).

This routine repeated itself again on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, along with our afternoons full of volleyball. Our volleyball games were played with a rock hard red soccer ball that probably weighed at least three pounds and caused swelling and bruising all along our forearms, but that still couldn't stop the eagerness we continuously possessed for just one more game... There was always a core group of folks from hostel who would play, but we often seemed to attract a small handful of other beach bums to join in the fun. "Other beach bums" being people like the bald guy whose upper body was covered in tattoos, the most noticeable being the one that took up his entire back and said in huge letters "Hell's Angels Amsterdam," or the huge Aussie guy with a head full of dreads who, off the court seemed quite pleasant but who on the court became a little overbearing as he would, in a monster-like fashion, leap up at the net and try to slam the ball back down into whoever's face sat wide-eyed below him on the other side. Volleyball isn't a sport I have ever taken much interest in, nor had I played very often in my 25 years, but for those 12 days it became a pure addiction.

Superstar volleyball team.

Just another day at the beach.

Resting after another round of volleyball.

Appropriately named by Mark; Cooter on the left, Mange on the right. These were our beach buddies.

This says it all right here.

The very last game played on this beach; we played until we could no longer see the ball...

That first Tuesday I spent in Tulum was no other than November 4th, election day. I, along with many others of course, had been anxiously awaiting this day for a long time and I was intent on spending that evening glued to a television. Thankfully, everybody in the hostel was enthusiastic--or at least indifferent--about spending the entire evening watching election coverage. We spent our day just like any other day in Tulum--at the beach, drinking beer and playing volleyball. Ahh, what a life. Early in the evening, before anybody was too engaged in the elections, two women came in from off the street when they saw a few of us huddled around the tv. They were a mother-daughter pair from Canada, the mother was probably in her 70s and they were staying in a hotel down the road. During a conversation I had with them, they expressed to me--just as many people had who from countries other than the US--just how important they felt these elections were to them personally and their country.

As the evening went on and the results began to pour in, more and more people started to congregate in the tv room. There were six Americans (four of us from Oregon!)--although I think the others (non-Oregonians, of course) were on the conservative side of things; they didn't say much and were less than enthused about everything, eventually skipping out early long before the final results were in. Overall, sometime before the announcement that Obama had won, there were at least about 25 people in the room. I remember looking around the room at one point, seeing people from France, England, South Africa, Argentina, Mexico, Austria, Germany, Australia, Canada, Morocco, Israel, New Zealand--it was an incredible moment. People were talking about how important this election is to their own countries, and to the rest of the world, and how they don't even get this excited about elections in their home countries. It would have been great to be home for this historic moment, but I wouldn't have changed this experience for the world. We had even bought two bottles of champagne earlier in the evening and popped those open in celebration when Obama's--and the world's--victory was announced. We passed the bottles around the room--pouring the champagne directly from the bottle to our mouths--until it was all gone; the tears definitely came out on more than one occasion on this glorious night.

Two days later on Thursday evening Joel, Mark, John and I decided to follow a group of about seven others who had been staying at the hostel to Lake Bacalar, a few hours south of Tulum. Most of them had left earlier in the day, but the four of us had easily agreed upon spending our day at the beach before making the drive down (for the obvious reason of getting a few volleyball matches in first). After spending a few minutes back at the hostel to clean up and down some of the delicious chicken tacos from across the street, we headed out on the open (and dark) highway toward the lake--Mark in shotgun, and John and myself in the backseat on cooler duty (which basically entailed distributing beer to the appropriate individual, with the exception of the driver, of course). The two-ish hour journey could be characterized as mostly a back and forth, friendly banter between the three Americans and the Brit about the English language--as spoken by both nationalities, respectively. My personal favorite discrepancy: the Brits' use of the word "stabilizers" to refer to "training wheels" for a child's bicycle. I think the boys also argued for a while about which nation has produced the best bands over the years...

The four of us had arrived to town later in the evening and after a brief period of confusion in trying to find a place to stay (the others had presumably filled up the hostel to its maximum capacity), we were eventually able to stay in the hostel after all. The only catch being that the three boys had to sleep in hammocks (I know, major bummer) and I took a mattress on the floor. The eleven of us spent the evening out on the screened porch, chatting and sipping away on our drinks. Everything was going fine, late into the night, when everything suddenly caught up with me. All I can offer right here are a few words of advice for those willing to listen--or for those who may one day be as stupid as I was on this night: don't EVER drink several cans of beer in the same evening you are partaking in consuming shots of rum--straight from the bottle--because it can only end in disaster. Just trust me on this one (or ask my friend Nick who's bed was right next to the bathroom...).

Lake Bacalar is situated next to a quaint-ish little town that didn't seem to have any attraction in and of itself. Then again, to give credit where credit's due, I thought the town to be rather endearing; there was something I really liked about it. Maybe it was the lack of other tourists or travelers, giving it a more authentic feel. There wasn't really much to it: a few internet cafes, a few restaurants, one little grocery store, a few convenience-type stores, a central park. That was really about all that I saw, and there didn't seem to be as many locals out and about walking around like I recall in most of the other towns I passed through. It just seemed slow and a little barren, but there was something I liked about it nonetheless. But, if the town didn't do it for you, then the lake certainly would. It was beautiful. The water was literally the color of the crystal clear Caribbean sea, white sand and everything. On our first full day, the entire group headed over to a place where we could rent kayaks and lounge around on docks in hammocks and lounge-chairs. It was a peaceful day, a nice little break from hours and hours of volleyball in the afternoons at the beach (I know, like I really needed a break from that life to begin with--but hey, beach volleyball can be tiring!). After returning to the hostel and getting cleaned up, we all went out to eat and spent the rest of the night back on the screened-in porch in the back of the hostel.

The next day a few people left in the morning, continuing onward to Belize. The rest of us spent a few hours in the afternoon sitting out along a long dock, partially covered by a thatched roof, occasionally taking a dip in the amazingly warm and clear turquoise water. We later returned to the hostel to gather our things and then me and three others (Mark, John and Sophie) left that evening to make the return trek back to Tulum. Those remaining stayed in Bacalar; it was time for the group of 11 to break into smaller groups and head their separate ways. The four of us made it back to the hostel that evening and honestly, the next several days were kind of a blur to me.

Hangin' out on the dock at Lake Bacalar (photo taken from Nick's facebook).

A little kayaking on Lake Bacalar (photo taken from Nick's facebook).

The whole Bacalar gang out for dinner.

Walking through town to catch a bus back to Tulum (photo taken from Sophie's facebook).

My days still consisted primarily of beach, beer and volleyball with a great group of people, but the specifics of what occurred have since departed from my memory. By this time, the end of my 15-week journey was fast approaching. Being so close to the end, on the one hand I felt like I was just lingering, waiting for that final day to come. I felt like I couldn't really go anywhere or do anything beyond the limits of Tulum; I had lost my sense of freedom to move about unknown territory, as I was now constrained by time. Instead, I had to make the best of what time was left and with the help of my fellow travelers, that's exactly what I did.

I had originally planned to only stay in Tulum for a few nights before moving onward to the city of Merida, ending my trip with a relaxing week-long stay on Isle Mujeres (a presumably low-key island off the coast of Cancun) before flying back home from Cancun. But, continuing with the travel patterns I had seemed to develop back in the beginnings of my journey, along with my mentality of not-leaving-when-you-already-have-a-good-thing, I decided--although not without much and frequent, almost daily, deliberation--that staying in Tulum was what I was going to do. I had friends, a routine, the most beautiful beach I'd ever stepped foot on, never-ending sunshine and most of all, I was happy there...

My final hoorah in Tulum--and my entire trip for that matter--was no other than a two-night stay in a little beach cabana with some friends, including a full moon party that ensued on the beach. On Tuesday night (I was to fly home that Friday) myself and five of my Tulum buddies (Mark from Tennessee, Sophie from England, Derek from South Africa, Erik from Sweden and John from England) shacked up in two little cabanas that were no more than a three-minute's walk to our volleyball court and section of the beach we all congregated together on a daily basis. Really, it was possibly the most brilliant idea EVER and I wondered why it was only then that we decided to move to the beach. The six of us enjoyed a nice dinner together, a few post-dinner cocktails, a long walk on the moonlit beach (que romantico, no?), followed by a few more cocktails from the nearby bar. We concluded the evening on a mass exodus in search of coconuts, as we were going to need them for the next evening in celebration of the full moon. It was late, the bar had closed, and everyone else seemed to be fast asleep, tucked away in their own little cabanas. Not us. We were on a mission.

[Now, there is a history to this coconut hunt, but one that began before my arrival to Tulum and therefore one that I will not elaborate on, as it is not my story to tell. Let's just say that Mark and John had previous experience climbing the coconut trees and whacking said coconuts to the ground.]

We gathered a nice collection of coconuts that, the following day, would be cracked open and filled with rum for a nice refreshing tropical beverage of rum and coconut water. It was mostly John who climbed either up the tree itself, or onto the shoulders of the other guys to reach the fruit. But, being the adventurous and good-natured person that I am who, when seeing a physical challenge such as climbing a coconut tree to the top to retrieve sustenance for the betterment of the group's well-being, I refused to let such a moment pass without doing my part. As you can see in the photos below, I was rather unsuccessful at my attempt to contribute to the greater good; however, it was equally enjoyable as it was unsuccessful, and now I can say I climbed a coconut tree in Mexico.

Here's a nice little photo shoot of my progression up the tree (okay, so I didn't do too well):




And here's John way up in the right corner of the picture:


My Tulum days ended happily, spending my last two nights on the beach under a full (or near-full) moon, which lit up the entire beach as thought it were daytime. You could see everything so clearly as the moon light reflected off the white sand, including the turquoise-blue color of the water, in the middle of the night. On our second night in the beach cabanas a large group of folks from the hostel decided to join us and following suit they, too, rented out their own cabanas. We had a great party on the beach that second night, attracting at least as many as 25 people from I don't know where. Some of these people I knew, or knew of, but many seemed to just come out of the woodwork looking for a party. There were even a few local guys who showed up with guitars, serenading us with sweet songs into the late-night hours. It was all a little surreal, to say the least (and I was not even drinking on this night); it felt a little dream-like, being surrounded by a bunch of friendly strangers who had all gathered together under the moonlight at this beautiful place to celebrate the moon. I could not have dreamed up a better ending to such an epic adventure in my life...

This was the little group from our first night in the cabanas (clockwise L to R: Sophie, Erik, Mark, Derek, John).

View from our cabana.

The cabana itself!

The cabana itself!

In case you haven't seen enough, a view from the inside...

At sunset on my last night in Tulum.

Derek, myself and Erik the night of the full moon party; that's coconut in my hand, freshly cracked and directly off the tree.

The rest of my story is rather boring, aside from the excitement I felt for returning home to see family, friends, and my precious kitty Luna. I left around noon the day after our beach party to make my way toward Cancun (cringe). Mark was flying out later that afternoon, myself and a young Kiwi woman (Liz) were flying out the following day, and two other gals had other plans of their own. The five of us made it as far as Playa del Carmen and ate lunch together before saying our goodbyes to Mark. Then, myself and Liz took a double private room so we could have our own space to organize and pack our lives away one last time before returning to the comforts of our own homes, and the other two took beds in the dorms. We didn't do much that evening; Liz and I took a stroll through town and a walk along the tourist-ridden beach. After spending so much time where I had, there was nothing attractive about Playa del Carmen. It was a huge Mexican Disneyland if you ask me, minus the rides and life-sized walking, talking Goofies. Dairy Queen, Burger King, and a million other American venues that are currently slipping my memory lined the main street of Playa. I was all but thoroughly disgusted with the place. I imagine Cancun to be even worse...

There weren't a lot of tourists in Tulum, at least not in the parts I spent the majority of my time in. Further down the beach there were hotels and resorts lining the shores, but we were far enough away that it never got that busy with tourists. In fact, the extent of 'proper tourism' that occurred around our neck of the woods was a daily catamaran full of tourists that would anchor off-shore and take them out into the open water on a snorkeling tour. It was funny, because they were far enough out and all you could see was this large collection of little neon orange spots in the water--life jackets--as they floated around in search of sea creatures of the Caribbean. Then, after they'd fulfilled their assigned time in the water, a smaller boat would bring one group of them at a time until they had all stepped foot on land at our beach. They would all stand there, dumbfounded, staring out at the water in amazement while they waited for the rest of the group to join them on the white sand. After about 20 minutes of that, they'd head as a group away from the beach, perhaps to a restaurant for a snack, or to catch their tour bus heading off to the next stop. It was quite a spectacle for us, I will admit, as we watched them "ooh" and "ahh" at the view, only a few of them daring enough to actually swim in the water. But, this is off-subject and neither here nor there...

I spent my last night in Mexico packing up my bags, getting rid of the things I didn't need (okay, just the things I really didn't need like my old stinky towel purchased in some Guatemalan supermarket that I had been using to both shower with AND lay on the beach with from time to time, or the two zip-up hoodies I had also purchased along the way that desperately needed laundered, one beautifully stained by red wine). I was up and showered early the next morning, and walked down to the bus station before Liz even woke up. I grabbed myself a muffin and bottled iced coffee from a little 7-11 type store (there really was a 7-11 there!) and was soon on my way to the Cancun Airport. I felt ready and excited to get home. I couldn't wait for a nice long, hot shower, my own bed to sleep in, my entire wardrobe of shoes and clothes to choose from, no longer having to eat out, and the genuine company of people who weren't just passing through my life over the course of a few days (not to say that many of the people I met won't hold a place in my heart forever, because many of them will). Almost home...

Tulum: My Last Hoorah

Nineteen hours and one 8 a.m. football field length sprint later (to catch the bus carrying all of my belongings that almost left without me while I was using the bus station's facilities--long women's restroom lines are DEFinitely a universal phenomenon), I arrived in Tulum, Mexico. A little dazed and confused, being 11am on a Saturday and having left at 4 p.m. the day before, I swung a right out of the bus station and walked about 50 meters to The Weary Traveler, a hostel that came highly recommended to me by my French friend Antony whom I had met in San Cristobal.

I went through the usual checking-in-at-a-hostel routine ("Tienes una cama en el dormitorio?" I asked in my broken Spanish). I then handed over my passport to the guy behind the counter as I wrote down my name and info and pulled out my cash. As I was led back to my room, I didn't take much notice of the other travelers sitting at the enlarged picnic-style tables lined up in the open courtyard space at the hostel, a two-story building of rooms on one side, the reception/bar and communal kitchen on the other. I wondered if they were as curious as I always am when a new person steps into the hostel I am currently inhabiting. After staying in one hostel for longer than a few nights, having familiarized oneself with the place and established both a routine and a social network, sometimes one can't help but carry a mild sense of territoriality when new people arrive; then again, maybe its just me. The dorm room had terrible lighting, four bunks for a total of eight beds, its own bathroom and shower, and the usual mess of people's stuff scattered about their beds and shoved into any free space that could be found in the corners of the room. Yet, by this point on my journey rooms like this had become home to me, a comfort of sorts, and I didn't think twice about any of it. It was just another room for me to store my things and sleep.

Tulum the town, where my hostel was located, is about 4-5 kilometers from Tulum the beach. One of the best things about the hostel was its free twice-daily shuttle to the beach. Conveniently for me, having arrived at 11 a.m., the second shuttle to the beach is at noon. So, I wasted no time and hopped on the 12 o'clock for an afternoon in the sun--something I couldn't wait for after my four days in the freezing cold that San Cristobal had to offer. Stepping out of the shuttle, I followed the shuttle crowd down to the beach. But, being my stubborn self, when the entire group took a left on the beach, I went right. Sometimes I go through a little fit of rebellion and yearn for anti-conformity, and this was one of those moments. My curiosity got the best of me as to what was so bad about the beach down to the right. Little did I know, everyday from there on forth I, too, would be making that left on the beach...

I spent most of that afternoon strolling along the long stretch of beach, dotted with semi-fancy hotels and their attached restaurants. When I took a seat in the shade on one of many lounge chairs set up on the beach, it didn't take more than 30 seconds for a hotel worker to let me know it was 40 pesos or off. I should have known better than to sit on one of the 50 empty chairs on a public beach. Truthfully, this day was a little boring, as the sun was soon covered by clouds that eventually let loose some rain showers. I didn't exactly get my afternoon in the sun, but there is always tomorrow, right?

Not surprisingly, while killing time at the hostel before catching the shuttle to the beach earlier that day, I saw out of the corner of my eye a curly-haired guy playing pool in the t.v. room of the hostel. Standing up, I walked on over with a huge smile on my face and greeted the not-so-surprised Sean and Noam, my curly-haired Canadian and Israeli buddies. We exchanged a few of what had become our regular jokes every time we crossed paths (twice in Guatemala, twice in Belize, and now Mexico)--jokes about how inseparable the two had become and how by then it must be their one month anniversary, how I keep following them everywhere (when in fact, this was the first time that I had arrived to a place after them; normally I was there first). So, when I arrived back to the hostel that evening, they graciously invited me to tag along for dinner. These two were always good company.

I went to bed early that night, tired from my long bus ride and an afternoon of walking in the sand. I had no idea, as I laid my head down on my pillow that night, that Tulum and The Weary Traveler would be my home for the remainder of my trip...

Quinceanera-Crashers!

I was excited to get to San Cristobal. Every single person whom I'd met along the way who had spent time there raved about this place. I had about two weeks left of my trip, so I decided that San Cristobal de las Casas would be my home for about one of those weeks. I was looking forward to, once again, camping out somewhere for a while.

I wasted no time on this morning in my little cabana outside of Palenque and arrived to Palenque, the town, about an hour before the bus was scheduled to leave for San Cristobal. I had learned to love the public transportation system in Guatemala and Mexico, particularly the microbuses (or, collectivos), which were so incredibly convenient--and cheap. In Guatemala, most microbus rides around town would cost about 1.5 quetzales (about $0.20) and I believe this 15-minute ride to town cost about 3 pesos, or about one U.S. quarter. I was dropped off on the corner opposite the bus station and bought my ticket to San Cristobal. Like many of the bus stations I passed through in Mexico, this one had no walls on the sides along the streets since it never really closes. It was just a big, open space with one wall occupied by a ticket counter and one with a bathroom (that, of course, I had to pay about 3 pesos to use). Rows of chairs filled the rest of the space. I left my bags with luggage storage (for 5 pesos per hour) and took off down the street in search of a supermarket so I could find some breakfast and stock up on some snacks. I always liked to have some assortment of food on me at all times--you never know when you'll be stuck somewhere hungry and no access to food. And I don't do well hungry.

I made it back to the bus station with plenty of time to spare, grabbed my bags and drank the liquid strawberry flavored, vitamin fortified yogurt I bought at the store as part of my breakfast. When it was time to board the bus I took my assigned seat a few rows from the very back, on the right side of the bus. A guy about my age, obviously a traveler, took the seat in the row across from mine. We exchanged a greeting, but didn't talk again until we were well into the journey. Our conversation didn't really stray from the typical conversation between to traveling strangers--Where are you from? How long are you traveling? Where are you going? Where have you been? What do you do back home? The usual. Antoine was from Switzerland. He was on a 3-ish week vacation in Mexico, heading to Puerto Escondido next, after San Cristobal. He is more or less some kind of "businessman" back home, maybe in accounting or something. I don't quite remember the details. We didn't speak much the rest of the ride. I tried to take a nap, covering myself up with a cheap sarong I had purchased when I visited the castle near Rio Dulce in Guatemala. These charter buses, albeit quite fancy, were almost always freezing cold from the air conditioning. But, I had prepared myself this time: plenty of layers, a pair of socks to put on (since I was wearing flip flops), long pants and my sarong for a makeshift blanket. I would not freeze on this trip.

The ride was supposed to be about six hours. We stopped half-way through for about 20 minutes to use a bathroom (even though there was one on the bus, but most passengers still preferred to use this one despite having to pay a few pesos) and grab something to eat from the little food stands that carried the usual of little packages of chips or cookies or pastries--all the healthy snacks you could imagine. I grabbed the pack of saltine type crackers that I had bought in the store earlier that day in Palenque and just stood outside watching the world go by in this little town of which I didn't know the name. I was thankful for the sun shining down on me. Antoine was talking with another traveler from our bus who I had not noticed earlier. They were speaking in French and I had no interest in trying to enter the conversation.

Back on the bus.

About 45 minutes before arriving to San Cristobal, a girl from the front of the bus (who I had exchanged smiles with earlier when I walked by her to take my seat after our stop), went to the back to use the toilet. She was an extremely beautiful young Mayan girl. Her skin was a perfect brown with almond eyes and long, sleek black hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She was wearing a long skirt made of Mayan material and a peach cardigan sweater. I wish I had asked to take her picture. When she came out, she stopped in the aisle where I was sitting and said something to me in Spanish--something which I do not recall--but it initiated conversation nonetheless. We maintained a slightly awkward conversation for a little while, asking each other about where we live and how many siblings we have (and other such topics that don't surpass the extent of my limited conversational skills in Spanish). She commented on my pretty sarong, I on her sweater. She asked if I had a husband and when I said no, asked if Antoine was my boyfriend. Another no. She asked me if I had any lipstick and as I pulled out my colorless chapstick she asked what color it was. I am pretty sure I disappointed her with that, I think she really wanted to put on some lipstick. I was delighted to let her use it anyway. She taught me a few things to say in the Mayan language she spoke, Tzotzil. I taught her a few things in English. We talked about how cold it was up there in the mountains. She asked me what I did for work, I asked her if she went to school. No, she didn't go to school. I learned that she was returning to her home in San Cristobal for the first time in five months after having worked somewhere in Palenque, doing what, I do not know. She was 14 years old.

After our conversation was forced to end because my Spanish only went so far, she took the seat behind me. She said she was going to take a nap and asked if I would wake her up when we arrived. I said "si" and gave her a smile, I was so touched by this young girl of fourteen. She seemed much older. I wanted to talk with her more, to learn more about her and find out where she lived and invite her to meet up with me and take her to do something fun, something for her, something that she might enjoy. We never really talked again because she slept until we arrived, and I don't remember her name. When we got off the bus we both waited to retrieve our luggage from underneath the bus, but I ended up in a conversation with Antoine and never saw the girl again.

The other guy who Antoine had been speaking with earlier was Antony, from France. The three of us left the bus station together in search of a popular hostel called The Backpacker's Hostel. I was happy to follow them through the streets and focused instead on my freezing cold feet and heavy backpack. The walk took what seemed like forever, and it didn't help that the boys got us temporarily lost, but finally we found our way and secured some beds for the evening in a four-person dorm room. Three beds on the bottom floor, one bed up above on a little loft. They were kind enough to let me take the bed up top and I was quite pleased to have my own little private space. The evening was mellow and ended nicely with huddling around the hostel's bonfire with the rest of the hostelers. Somebody had even brought marshmallows so I joined in and indulged myself in a nice pastel pink roasted marshmallow. I recall some of the American, Irish and Australian guys sitting around the fire making fun of a Bulgarian girl (who ended up being our fourth roommate) who had never in her life had a roasted marshmallow. Staying in hostels may not always do a great job of integrating one into the local culture, but it doesn't mean there isn't a constant cultural exchange still occurring between travelers who represent all corners of the globe...

Antoine and Antony were my friends for the next three days. However, it was one of the more interesting of group dynamics I had experienced because Antoine was from Switzerland and spoke English and French, but his Spanish was worthless. Antony was from France and spoke Spanish and French, but his English was worthless (and his insecurities in speaking English made it even worse). I spoke minimal Spanish, and definitely no French. So over the course of the three days we spent together, we would function as follows: the two guys would speak French to one another, Antoine and I would speak English to each other, and Antony and myself would speak Spanish to each other. Somehow it worked and we managed to maintain a perfectly normal triad. I even impressed myself with my Spanish-speaking abilities, particularly when Antoine and myself were alone together and actually maintained some more serious conversations.

The next morning the three of us headed off to go on a horseback ride out to a little village about six miles from town. We were joined by three others, two Swedish girls and a Scottish lassie. I hadn't ridden a horse since I was about six years old, but neither had most of the others in the group. And, there's no doubt that these poor horses make the same trek day in and day out and were about as tame as could be. The ride was fun, but not as scenic as we had expected because we actually rode straight through the city for about 15 minutes! Once we got out of the city we just took a long, winding road through the mountains--or hills--until we reached the village. My horse, Principe, kept tripping over his own feet on the downhill parts. I was positive that at any given moment me and Principe were going to go tumbling to the ground and I could envision myself being squashed by this animal who is quite a bit larger than myself...

On the winding road toward the village.

Principe resting in the shade after the long ride into the village.

Me 'n Principe gearing up for the ride back.

The group (Antony, Swede #1, Swede #2, Antoine, me).

The group (Antony, Swede #1, Swede #2, Scottish girl, Antoine).

We spent about an hour walking through the village, mainly sticking to the huge local market. We paid to use some public restrooms and the guys grabbed a few sodas while we all sat around a round plastic table in front of one of the many food stalls. A short old woman approached us, wrinkled, toothless and barefoot, asking for money. "One peso! One peso!" None of us had change, or we didn't give any of the change we did have. She wouldn't leave us alone and stepped right up into our 'personal bubbles,' shoving her hands right in our faces to demand the money from us. It's hard not to give in to some beggars, and like most people I think I am particularly inclined to give in to the children, but I also have a soft spot for old people (go figure). Well, this old woman quickly made my soft spot disappear and the group of us got up to continue on our stroll. She followed us for about 30 yards, along with a brood of young children, also with bare feet, but she eventually gave up on us.

After a long ride back to San Cristobal (sore ass and all), Antoine, the Scottish girl and myself enjoyed a delicious lunch of chicken tacos and beer. The rest of the afternoon and evening entailed strolling through the market and a long walk throughout the city. When Antoine and I left the hostel to go on our walk (which was really just an effort to search for the perfect gift for his mother and girlfriend), we had noticed some loud music coming from a doorway just across the street from the hostel. We peeked through the doorway, but were caught by three young boys and a middle aged woman dancing in the middle of the large room. She waved, we waved back, and then stepped away not wanting to bother them. But the boys came running to the door and waved us back. We peered through once again and now the woman was waving us in. All I could see were about 15 men, women and children dancing to the music--classic Mexicana music. They insisted we come in. We were invited on to the dance floor, but our initial hesitancy was respected and we were instead brought a nice warm cup of coffee and a place of hors d'oeuvres--mini round tortilla chips topped with chopped up tomatoes, onions and what tasted like bologna. Soon enough we gathered the courage to hit the dance floor and spent the next hour or so dancing. I moved my feet up and down, stepping side to side, trying to copy how they were dancing. It was certainly a first for me and far different from any dance I had ever done before, but I had a good time nonetheless. The little girls would run away from Antoine when he tried to dance with them, and the boys stayed far from my reach. At some point it occurred to me that here we were, celebrating a young woman's quinceanera with the entire family! Turns out it was also a party for her younger brother's first communion. We had officially become quinceanera-crashers, sweet! After we'd had our fill of dancing, we gave both kids a small monetary gift and thanked the mother for her kindness and generosity. I was on such a high after that, elated at the fact that I had just spent my evening celebrating a very important moment in the lives of two kids and their family. After leaving, Antoine and I continued our walk, stopping in jewelery stores to search through all of the amber and jade (San Cristobal has an overwhelming amount of amber and every other shop sells it). Despite that it was freezing cold, I indulged in a little dish of gelato before we called it a night.

I spent a lot of the next day on my own, walking around town and taking in the sights, making sure to stop by one of the several bakeries that were lined with shelves full of irresistibly sweet breads and fruit-filled pastries and chocolate donuts and frosted cookies. Mmmm...

A few of the churches and cathedrals scattered throughout the city:

(Me sitting under the large cross out in front of the large yellow cathedral).

At the local market--not the tourist market:

Other pictures taken while walking around:

A view of a main road through San Cristobal, lined with shops and restaurants--and no cars allowed!

The steps I climbed up to get a view of the city...

... and the view from the top.

That evening the three of us had decided we wanted to go to one of the local cinemas, which were known to play some great films and documentaries about the Zapatista movement in the Mexican state of Chiapas, where San Cristobal is located. We asked some woman on the street where we could find one of these cinemas, and she told us to catch a microbus around the corner. We followed her directions and hopped on the next one that came by. Turns out we were heading not toward a nice little independent cinema, but a massive Americanized movie theater inside a massive Americanized shopping mall. If I weren't in such good company I might have been very upset, but hey, gotta roll with the punches. We had time to kill before the show started (an American film with Spanish subtitles--exactly what I wanted to see), so we went in search for dinner. There was nowhere to eat outside of the shopping mall, so we took our various shopping mall dinner options into careful consideration--Domino's, McDonald's, or some sketchy looking Mexican fast food place--and agreed on a large pizza from Domino's. I felt as though I could have been in any given American city that night, walking through the mall with it's bright lights and tile floors and glass store fronts. Even the movie theater served over-sized buckets of popcorn and giant sodas and boxes of Whoppers, Raisinets and Sour Patch Kids. For those few hours that evening I no longer feeling like I was in Mexico...

Antoine had decided to leave the following day and head toward Puerto Escondido--and warmer weather. San Cristobal was cold. And I mean cold. The old colonial city sits at almost 7,000 feet elevation and although it was sunny during the days, once that sun set I couldn't even wear enough clothing to keep me warm. I slept with three wool blankets, my sleeping bag liner and multiple layers of clothing. I bought a wool hat and gloves and scarf at the market to wear in the evenings--and slept with them, too. Antoine, Antony and myself had all planned to stay at least four or five nights, maybe even a week in San Cristobal, but the cold ultimately drove us all away.

That night, my last night (after Antoine left, Antony and I had both decided we'd be leaving the next day), Antony and I went out in search of one of the real cinemas. I had seen earlier that they would be showing a documentary about the Zapatista movement in San Cristobal and Chiapas that occurred in the 90s. Remember, this is the guy whom I communicated almost strictly in Spanish with, so it made for an interesting evening in which I was forced to practice the language. I had no idea just how much I had actually learned until after that night, and I was pleasantly surprised with myself! The film was quite moving, and didn't hold back on showing dead bodies. It was hard to believe that all of this happened in places that I had just recently stepped foot on during my short timer in San Cristobal.

By the time the next afternoon rolled around, I was more than ready to leave this ice-cold city. Had it not been so cold I likely would have stayed longer, but with less than two weeks left of my travels, I wanted to end in a warm place before heading home to the cold and rain back home to the Pacific Northwest. So, at 5pm I said bon voyage to Antony and adios to San Cristobal, taking a night bus to Tulum.

Oh, I left San Cristobal on the evening of Halloween, but didn't leave too soon to see all of the adorable children parading through the central square in their costumes earlier that day. I have never seen so many children dressed in such great Halloween costumes. I only got one picture, but I chose carefully and captured this cute little guy--he was adorable: