Zelie has left me (and you) with some parting thoughts until her next venture south of the border in a few months. Her eloquence is astounding. Enjoy!
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Z's Rear View
I left you all in central Mexico, before my buns finally did get tired and my head filled with the flu. But the sights and sounds are still wonderful from the back of the bike so here is a bit more of Z's rear view:
Sailing down the center of Mexico, there are unfinished homes everywhere in various states of construction, destruction or simply abandoned to the forces of nature. Those that stand completed are of every color: the brightest oranges, blues, yellows and greens. Sick and dying dogs drunkenly sway on spindly legs, certainly no man's best friend in these parts. An old campesino stands in the middle of an ankle-deep river joyfully washing himself, naked in front of God and everyone but for the crumpled cowboy hat on his head. Pickup trucks with heightened rails rattle along dusty roads, packed with Mexicans standing from one destination to another. Coca Cola --an apparent sponsor of Mexico-- is everywhere: La Vida Tiene Sabor. Life has flavor. A garage worker with a high-powered spray gun washes a tractor with paint thinner. No glasses. No gloves. No mask.
New Year's Eve and the streets are filled with all out warfare, though of a consensual kind. People of all ages and background lob eggs, spray soap and laugh for hours. When we walk into a bar early New Year's morning, a group of young Mexicans burst into applause and chants for ´La Huerita´ (the little white girl- that would be me.) and her bravery on the battlefield. It takes days to get the "celebration" out of my hair.
Moving south we leave desert for the lush mountains and plummeting temperatures of the state of Chiapas. Men and women in sweaters and blankets try to ward off the chill of clinging fog; crops of flowers amazingly grow on the hillside; Tzozil indians stand in front of churches that aren't theirs, praying to Gods that mean little to them. A new highway cuts into the mountain leading to San Cristobal, right through a family's field of corn.
The struggle for land rights and autonomy is still clear in the villages and on the faces of men and women in the fields. La Lucha Sigue... The Zapatistas, armed revolutionaries who hit the world stage nine years ago this January, have been quiet for some time now but their presence is still strong. And though not everyone agrees with the group's tactic of armed rebellion, there is no one who will say they do not understand. As one wise campesino we met over tacos so eloquently put it: "Una mujer cuyos hijos tienen hambre es capable hacer cosas inimaginables, cual quier cosa." "A woman whose children are hungry is capable of doing unimaginable things. She is capable of anything."
Through clouds of black exhaust, we make our way to Guatemala, the older sister of Mexico's poverty. She is more developed and set in her ways. Smiling children and the explosive colors of huipiles (traditional dress) can make you forget the abject poverty, but only for a moment. More profound are the images of shanty wooden homes built on mountaintops, held together with bailing wire and spent tires. Idigenas bent in half, hauling huge bundles of wood strapped to their forehead up hillsides and along highways. The acrid stench of coffee beans drying and that sacred bean's yellow stain on grown men's hands. And so many children spending their days and nights pushing to purchase, everything, anything, or something, please.
Weaving through poorly paved highways we learn the rules of the road: A branch in your lane means trouble ahead. A single sandbag can tell you the highway has collapsed. Pepsi is the sponsor of this country, and can be found in everything from babies' bottles to religious ceremonies and everything in between. It appears at every roadside stand.
Arriving at Lake Atitlan leaves me speechless. How can you describe what it's like to stand in the cradle of three huge sleeping volcanoes? Blue water a thousand feet deep collected from rains of time. There are fifteen volcanoes in this country; thirty five in neighboring El Salvador.
Across the lake in every pueblo, God's soldiers have left their mark: Dios te Amo and Cristo Salva painted on every door and every wall. The missionary's early directive to leave no child behind. Here God is good and apparently so is tourism. "The town used to be small but now it is very big," says a woman of her town of San Pedro, population maybe one thousand. She has been selling fruit smoothies to tourists for seven years. Heading onward past acres of cabbage and broccoli. A huge pile of carrots obscures a group of women gathered to rest in a grassy field.
We go to Antigua following our north star: the enormous plume of smoke from that town's erupting volcano. For four months now El Fuego has been reactivated
after nearly thirty years of calm. Only at night can you see red hot lava bursting from it's cone; in the daytime, smoke and ash fill the air.
I try to keep my eyes closed as we crawl through Guatemala City but can't help notice the concrete jungle behind a thick blanket of smog. On the outskirts are car cemetaries: piles of crumpled autos, twisted metal and broken glass. A sobering reminder to be grateful for every minute of every day.
By the time we arrive in Copan, Honduras, to see the great Mayan ruins, our faces are black with soot and our lungs filled with exhaust. But Honduras is lighter in every way. The hills are green and the faces are brighter. Clearly life is easier here. Soon we will go to a beach.
It has been raining for two weeks, they tell us, despite the fact that December ends the rainy season. I think, ´It´s been raining for two weeks. How much longer can it rain?´ (insert laughter here). But if there is anything one learns in travel, it is to be patient and that nothing is ever quite what you expect.
(Editor's Note: I heard it stopped raining the day I left the island...)