Location: Panajacel, Guatemala
Miles from Home: 3,800
We're on the road now over three weeks, and so much has happened it's hard to recount. We've selected a few gems among the rubble, however, we hope you enjoy. I know it's a lot, but take it in bites...total reading time -- 10 minutes.
Silent Night, Holy Night
It's 6:30 Christmas Eve as we roll into Playa Azul -- almost night fall. Seven hours in the saddle has earned us some down time. Strangely, Playa Azul is the only Mexican town we've been through to date that doesn't have a main Zocalo or Plaza. In fact, the main road just dumps us onto a mangy main drag along the beach.
Playa Azul is not quite the beach hamlet we had envisioned. After looking for a minutes for anything resembling a nice inexpensive hotel, we get flagged down by a shirtless smiling guy named Shortie, although he pronounces it "Chortie."
Beer in hand, he asks in his best English, "You need room? You come my house. We have room." After a round of questions to ensure it's on the up and up, we idle down the road after him to check things out. The room is more of a converted chicken coop than anything else, and the hole-in-the-ground-toilet is quite enchanting. Now we're not prude travelers or anything, but with a smile and wink we tell them we'll look around and come back.
Fifty yards down the road we run into the only other two gringos in town, a couple of an undetermined European origin. We ask them if there's a decent cheap hotel in town. He seems not too happy with his accomodations and says they're staying in the only real Hotel in town, and it's 30 bucks. I ask him what the beach looks like in the daytime, and he replies, "It's sort of like Beirut after the war."
We may not be prudes, but we're cheap as hell so it's back to Chorties place to try our luck. We "check in" and pay our $5 for the night. Not trusting the slat board walls or checkerboard quilt partition between the room and the bathroom, we lock all of stuff up with a cable around a post in the middle of the room. "Trust everyone, but brand your horses" -- it's a little piece of wisdom we return to often.
Heading out to find a little Christmas dinner, the father of the house asks if he can come along. He promises to lead us to a nice place for dinner, and fifteen minutes later we're halfway across town sitting at a taco joint ordering huaraches. He makes pleasant conversation, peppering the exchange with alarming comments about his three boys that still live at home. They all (includung Chortie) like the bottle, but the oldest one, Alan, he gets a little crazy sometimes. Z and I exchange raised eyebrows across the table.
After a pleasant walk around the unpleasant town of Playa Azul, we head back to settle down for the night. As we doze off, the oldest boy comes back home from the bar and commences an impressive run of wreches by the door to our room. Twenty minutes later, the town seems to be engulfed in war, as every child under 8 lights off M-80 sized fire crackers for two hours until midnight. "Beirut?" I think, as I give Zelie a goodnight Christmas kiss.
In the morning instead of presents under the tree, we are awakened by the father using the toilet just on the other side of the quilt wall from our heads. He has quite an impressive array of sounds to share himself, rivaling those of his eldest son last night.
As we pack up to leave, Zelie and I agree that this is probably one of the most memorable Christmas experiences we've ever had. I can't help but hum Silent Night to myself as we drive out of Playa Azul before 9 am.
Don't You Have Change?
Mexico is currently undergoing a drastic shortage of loose change and small bills. This must be the case at least, as every store or restuarant we venture into asks the question, "Don't you have change?" In Oaxaca, the problem in reaching epic proportions.
We're at the market for a little dinner at one of the food stalls, and go to pay the 46 peso tab. "Don't you have change?" says the clerk as I hand him a fifty bill (about 5 bucks). After showing him my empty pockets, he runs out of the market, around the corner, and half way down the block to break the HUGE bill I gave him. Five minutes later, he returns with an annoyed look on his face, and gives us our change.
The next morning as we have breakfast on the way out of town, we run up a 32 peso bill at the corner restuarant. We're obviously the first patrons of the day, so I feel well assured that the cash drawer they've prepared for the day is full of change. Not so. It seems the concept of a cash drawer has not quite percolated south of the border. No, they start out everyday with an EMPTY cash drawer, waiting for faithful patrons like us to fill it. So, we wait for more customer to come in, have breakfast, and pay before we get change for our 40 pesos.
¿Estamos Hablando Español?
Sometimes I wonder if we are really speaking Spanish or not. By the way people look at us, give us the wrong food, or just generally smile and nod, I sometimes wonder. At breakfast, Zelie clearly orders Huevos Rancheros -- it's hard to miss that one. It's a simple egg dish with tortillas and salsa. The waitress looks at her blankly and says, "Scrambled eggs?" "No, huevos rancheros," Zelie repeats. "Sunnyside up?" "No, HUEVOS RANCHEROS!" "Oh, you want Huevos Rancheros, ok," she replies blankly taking down the order.
A few days later, I order the "Oaxacan breakfast," a feast of eggs, empanadas, hot chocalate and more, clearly using the words "desayuno Oaxaqueño." "How do you want the eggs?" asks the waitress. "Mexican style (scrambled with onions and tomato), please." When the eggs come out, I go easy waiting for the rest of the meal to come. After five minutes, I ask "Isn't there more food?" "Sure," she replies. Five more minutes go by, the eggs are gone, I've wolfed down my hot chocolate, and still no more food. "Excuse me, but wasn't I supposed to get more food with the Oaxacan breakfast?" "I'm sorry, you didn't order that." I look at Zelie with amazement as she assures me she heard me order it.
I'm convinced we are either speaking our own gringo dialect of Spanish, or everyone just enjoys messing with our heads. Either way, we enjoy the friendly mishaps as part of the experience.
Oaxacan New Year
After missing Oaxaca for Christmas (see above) we decide to pass the New Year there instead. We pull in for a three day stint on the 30th, and find a nice cheap place four blocks off the plaza. From everything I've heard, Oaxaca has a crazy New Year's scene. Parties all night. People dancing in the streets. Veritable parades at the break of dawn. We are very psyched, indeed.
Many people say Oaxaca is the cultural center of Mexico. Thousands of artisans bring their wares to market here, and the city has its own distincy style of food -- rich moles of chile, chocolate, tomato and other rich flavors. As we step into the Zocalo (plaza) in midafternoon, the city feels alive. Thousands of people crowd the busy street market, children run and play, and rich odors waft into our faces. This is a distinct and welcome change after nearly ten days running from one lazy beach to another. After dinner in the market and coffee back on the Zocalo, we turn in early hoping to conserve our energy for the New Year.
By 8 pm on the 31st, we've seen most of the city and still made time for a short siesta back at the room. With a few more coffees we'll be ready to rage with the best of them all night. At 8:30, the Zocalo is surprisingly quiet. A few bars and coffee shops we had scoped out during the daytime are closed up. Strangely, quite a few restuarants have there doors shut as well. We ask a local what gives, and she explains that New Year's isn't really that big of a deal here. Most people make it a family night, or party with friends, so we had better find a place to eat quick because everything will surely be closed by 10 o'clock. Frantic, we run up the Alcalde and find an Italian Bistro still open, filled with similarly confused gringos.
A 9:00 before we sit down, fireworks fill the sky for about five or ten minutes.
For those five or ten minutes, the streets are filled with an air I would think in keeping with the spirit of the New Year. People pour out of their houses and from the few open restuarants for a glimpse, but as quickly as it comes, it goes. The frenetic moment has passed.
By 11:30 we're rolling out of the restuarant, and down to the Zocalo. There are people about, but not in the numbers we had expected. As the New Year approaches, children run through the Zocalo selling eggs filled with confetti or flour, supposedly for throwing in the air after the ball drops. They also sell cans of what looks like shaving cream, but it's used instead to spray into the air like confetti. They call it "spuma." Things are looking up, me thinks, as it starts looking like a crazy Mexican New year might turn out afterall.
As the clock on the Cathedral approaches midnight, there is no countdown, or even a bell. For about five minutes, people have their own little New Year celebrations according to their watches or once they notice other people doing so: couples kiss, kids smash confetti eggs on each other, and firecrackers go off.
With a flash, the scene changes. Eggs start flying, cans of spuma get sprayed and even larger homemade firecrackers go off. I can tell some of the older folks are getting edgey as they back off from the plaza to find shelter in the surrounding cafes. Within ten minutes, egg wars have broken out, gringos are running madly from bands of laughing Mexican kids wielding cans of spuma, and people are generally having a great time.
Far from mean-spirited, the ensuing two hours of all-out insanity in the streets of Oaxaca are filled with hugs and laughs. Being conservative old people (and me toting an expensive new camera) Z and I try to stay out of the crossfire for as long as we can, but soon we too are engulfed in the egg-spuma wars. Soon, Zelie's entire head and torso are covered in white spuma foam. Spunky gringas are especially beloved targets, I suppose. After a few hours we are wet, exhausted, and having the time of our lives. Later, after the madness subsides, and the spuma cans have all run dry, the Zocalo looks like Broad Street in Philadelphia after the Mummers Parade -- a little reminder of home.
Later, we find a late-night poetry and acoustic guitar jam in a bar made for 15 people. By 4 am, we've been inducted as honorary members into the secret society of "Jacobs," a bunch of college kids from Mexico City, and begin the walk back to our room.
I can't say for sure whether or not people actually poured into the streets at sunrise, as our source had indicated they would. As all of our other expectations for a Oaxacan New Year were wrong, we didn't wait up to find out. We greeted the day at noon instead.
Posted by Sully at January 6, 2003 07:26 PM