installment 2

The bus ride to Tuxtla was cold. When we stopped half way through the trip I figured that it was going to be cold as hell because the bus was. On the contrary – wherever we stopped was hot as hell. I guess the air conditioner on the bus was just cranked up full-blast.

We arrived early in the morning, before most businesses were open and people cluttered the streets (which we found to be the norm – streets filled with people – during normal business hours). While eating breakfast I found myself talking to another foreigner. We were talking in Spanish because it was obvious that English wasn’t his first language. Turns out it was French. He was a French Canadian. I suppose that explained his standoffishness. His attitude wasn’t consistent with his behavior however; he directed me to where I could find a cheep hotel and where to go in order to catch the bus to Cañón Del Sumidero. 

The first hotel we found was dingy. It was smart of us to inspect the room that we’d get before actually paying for it (aquí, se paga antes). The next one we found was much nicer. 150 pesos a day for 2 people (vale la pena si se gasta dolores).

The streets are narrow and filled with short darker-skinned people. Racism is thinly veiled here by the way (though I can’t exactly say that about southern Mexico). I mean, shit, moreno and guerreo mean “darky” and “whitey”, respectively. And they’re often used. One time while walking down the street the dude at the local economic kitchen, which I frequent, hollered at me, “que onda, guerreo?” I confirmed with Carolina if he said what I thought he said.

After she did, I responded, “que tal, moreno? He was cheerful in his greeting to me as much as when he received my response. It’s really strange – I almost want to associate how their behavior contrasts with the meaning of what they say, i.e. it’s context, with how us U.S.Anz (at least socal) use racial references in jest – you know, like Chapell style. It’s only a hunch right now.

Anyway, The awnings in front of the shops were daunting, considering. Several places sold dried fish (cod?  I don’t know), shrimp, and crickets. When my Spanish teacher learned that I was going to southern Mexico, she assigned as homework to try some dried crickets. I got a zero on that assignment. Story of my life (well, it was anyway, to be honest).

Tuxtla is too small of a place to use full-blown city buses. Instead they use colectivos, a taxi like concept but with lots of people crammed into a mini-mini van. The sort that you’d expect more so on a southeast Asian or Japanese road. Boy, it’s cheep though. Think of it as a hybrid between a taxi and a bus. They have a specific route, but will pick people up and drop them off wherever they like as long as it’s on that route. The fee is pretty much at the whim of the driver. I got the feeling he just sort of guesses how far he went for the particular person. It’s sheep though, regardless. We took one of these such contraptions down to the canon, a 20 minute ride that only cost us 9 pesos each. In San Luis that would have been at least 50 pesos with a regular taxi.

Later we paid for and boarded a long boat with dual formidable sized Evenrudes strapped on the back. It was opened aired with 4 benches that fit about 3 people. These boats were so elongated that when there wasn’t anybody, or very few people in the boat, the driver, who was in the back, couldn’t see forward because the nose would rise above his head when it moved. Instead, they’d be constantly turning to see ahead of themselves. there were others with raised seats in the back though.

The boat ride was down the river that runs through the canon right on into Guatemala. For about an hour we brainstormed about actually going to Mexico’s southern pal, but then decided that it would be more trouble than it’s worth – time and money. I did get a gnarly chapaneco poncho though. Later you’ll find that as awesome as my poncho may be, it did me little good for the whole trip, which may be more so my fault than the poncho’s.