Into the Jungla

We found a hippie shrine constructed in honor of a huge and nameless beast.

We thought it was just a legend...until it hurled James into the river.

In Mérida, we went native.

I had to sacrifice James to end the 40 year draught that was plaguing the region.

It’s Happened Again, Folks

In true Caleb Goodrum style I’ve begun this blog in sweeping fashion, bent on delving into every aspect of the trip and very quickly run out of time to keep it up. Now I’m left with a very unsatisfying 10 day gap in the record and no good way to make it up.

I’m sitting at the breakfast table of a sleepy hostel on the beach eating a mango Manilla (tarter and fresher than it’s orange cousin) and drinking an amazing espresso made by the Italian owner of the place. There is a tiny black kitten in my lap who seems to enjoy sitting here almost as much as she enjoys attacking my feet whenever I move them under the table. My computer has just come back from the dead. Before Puerto Escondido, we spent a few days in the Lacondonian (spl?) jungle at Palenque and I suppose the jungle did it in somehow. I think the battery is shot, but it could be a good bit worse. Now I can finally post some material and tell people about this blog (which has been sitting with just one post for quite some time now.)

Stay tuned to see just how I am going to recollect the past few days for any interested parties at home or abroad!

Monterrey: Barrios and Hippies

On the way to my friend Carlos’ house to spend the night, I was caught up in barreling down Garza Sada avenue with the windows down, but the taxi reverie ended quickly and was replaced with a reunion. Carlos and his housemates feel like old friends, though I only just met them in march. I met Carlos the way that young folks tend to meet other young folks in this lost generation—the internet. Couchsurfing.com to be exact, a website that I can recommend to everyone who isn’t paranoid like my parents, siblings, and select friends are. (I say that if you can’t take an infinitesimal (read: ultra small) risk like surfing on a couch you will never, never live)

But I digress. The lovely house in the “tecnologico” part of town is shared by a lovely quartet (actually quintet, now) of young folks, all mexicanos having spent some part of their childhood in the states. It makes for a great atmosphere. It seems that there is always an engaging conversation to be had or an off-the-wall project to be worked on. After catching up with Carlos and lending some superglue to a watchsmith named Homer, I took a much needed shower (first in 50 hours) and retired for the night to their familiar beige couch.

I woke up in a sweat. But it was because the 11 o’clock sun shoots straight and hot at the beige couch. I rolled out of bed and dodged the rays like so many laser beams. Half an hour later the sun had found me once more and I was compelled to rise. I bided (or bode) my time reading until Carlos got out of the shower and he fixed me a scrumptious breakfast consisting mostly of eggs and chorizo. Thus filled, I cleaned the kitchen as Carlos left for work and then decided to walk downtown, though Carlos said the distance “was not meant to be walked.” I had seen the major stuff; I wanted to see a different set of streets. I meandered around the “colonias” between the house and downtown taking in the sights and staying in the sombre (shade). After a snack (Indiana Jones M&Ms!) at the Mexican version of Wal-Mart (Soriana), I made the final assault on downtown and slipped into an air-conditioned internet café to cool down and tell my wondering family where I was.

I did more walking and looking and took an afternoon nap on the riverwalk . I woke up refreshed and headed to the café Infinito which was actually one of the main reasons I wanted to return to MTY. Sitting on a nice street corner in the old town, el Infinito is a place for deep conversations, deep thoughts, and overly sweet frappes. It has a wall devoted to a book exchange in which the books are organized by color which delights me to no end. I was able to begin writing about the trip there and rest assured my account could have had no better birthplace.

[Here begins 10-day retrospective writing and a far sketchier account]

The next day James met me in the city. We were planning on hiking Monterrey’s trademark mountain, Cerro de la Silla (Saddle Hill), but it was surrounded by a thick veil of smog so we opted for a more urban route. Above Carlos’ neighborhood rises a house-covered ridge that runs for several kilometers parallel to downtown Monterrey so we headed up to the top to see what we could see. I had been told by a cab driver not to go there at night but with the sun up it seemed as safe as the next place, what with all the criminals off committing daytime crimes in the city. The incredible staircase to the top was reminiscent of a pre-Colombian pyramid and I thought of how this concrete laden hillside was a technological marvel of the new-school Toltecs. Imagine a national park 1600 years from now showing off the way that “ancient” Mexicans had covered an entire mountain ridge with stone. “Was it the palatial dwelling of the king of Monterrey?” They would ask. “Was it a grand temple to the God of commerce?” No, it was just a dirty hill to which thousands of poor people retreated at night and enjoyed the best view of the city. And what a splendid view it was. We hiked through the neighborhoods for a long time before we had to descend into the bustling city.

Later in the afternoon, James left to have dinner with the missionaries and I went to the bookstore to pick up some Ernest Hemingway (en Español). I was walking to find dinner when I was snagged off the streets by a guy named Rodrigo telling me to come on in to this café called Trece Lunas (13 Moons). It was an artsy place with a mostly reggae soundtrack and nuevo hippie vibe. Rodrigo, a cool Mexican youth of 2o, sipped a leather-clad cup of mate as he led me back into the depths of the place and introduced me to the other people who worked and lived there. For the next three hours I hung out with them. Hippie types really know how to hang out well. I watched Carly, a laconic, ultra pleasant Argentino, blend the most remarkable smoothie-like drinks I’d ever tasted (he gave me a tiny metal cupful of the leftovers every time he cleaned the blender). I learned some urban agriculture from Dulce, the resident gardener and dreadlocks-bearer. And looked at Rodrigo’s travel pictures. We passed the mate (strong South American tea drink) around all night and spoke only in Spanish because no one else knew any English to speak of (pun intended) and it was so thoroughly enjoyable that I came back the next night for more of the same. I shared tobacco from NC and saw a two-act play about communication which was quite appropriate for me. I stayed past closing was welcomed into the group who didn’t get kicked out of the place after hours. Trece Lunas left me wanting to stay in Monterrey for the semester. I’m sure I would have learned perfect hipster Spanish pretty quickly.

Other adventures included taking a midnight bus which I thought would get me back to the centro, but which took me about 25 minutes outside of the city to a dark town called Escobedo (which, I learned later, is known as “Escomiedo” [miedo=fear]) where the bus stopped. “This is the end” said the driver in Spanish and sent me across an abandoned highway to a slightly less abandoned gas station where I was able to hail a cab back to Carlos’ house just in time for a long game of risk with his roommates and a guy they call the Pope for his tendency to recreate the holy Roman empire during the game.

On the evening of the 18^th I met James at the airport and we crossed the Gulf. We arrived in Mérida in need of a roof and in search of adventure. We found both.

Backfill

The how and why of the adventure, or perhaps “hows and whys”, came from all directions. Two boys bent on seeing the world piece by piece stepped up onto a ragged Greyhound bus. Their quest for the time being: head south and return with a “piece” of Mexico in tow. What the two would do with such a thing is currently speculation at best but obviously it seemed worth the price of two cross-country tickets and 30 hours of their lives—both given without reservation to the rather disorganized bus company.

Caleb and James began this journey and this account is through the young eyes, romantic heart, and fairly cynical mind of Caleb. That’s me. And though it would be infinitely entertaining to write about the entire semester in the third person, I decided that I would not. It seems that writing in that voice gives you absolute superiority and while I’m not against it, I thought it would be weird to have absolute authority over myself as a character in my own story. Then I got confused. So I wrote in the first person.

Grammatical issues aside, James and I were on a bus. With all the other people that ride greyhound buses. I attempted to describe that crowd last night but met with failure so I’ll not try again. I know everyone’s eager to hear all about the bus trip, but there’s really not that much to report. We both slept a lot. We decided that if one is able to sleep easily on a bus then it is a viable means of transport. In truth the trip to Laredo, Texas was composed of 30 of the shorter hours of my life. The universe must have been contracting that day, you know, squishing the hours together or something. The universe contracts when you sleep.

A chemical spill on I-40 forced a sidetrip down to Chattanooga before we hit Nasheville and that spelled a 2 hour deficit which our driver was determined to shake. This meant that we had 0:10-0:15 minute layovers instead of 0:30-1:00 long ones which was grand, except we weren’t able to cook any part of the stash of food we brought along. Fortunately we were able to survive the wide and bumpy Arkansas roads and huge traffic jams outside of Dallas on oranges, cheese, and lil’ smokies (as well as a Subway sandwich that George, our longtime busmate, insisted I have after a 4am bus-cleaning crew stole my sandwich.)

In celebration of our arrival in Laredo (23 hours after the above sandwich-theft) we walked out to a very Spain-influenced park and cooked pasta with vodka sauce next to the eternal flame of the Laredo veterans’ memorial. Some water boiled over our small pot during the cooking of the second batch, soaking or stove. Ever resourceful, James set the pot upon the eternal flame to finish cooking. “I think” remarked James “that those veterans would be so proud of their flame being used so well.”

We took turns at communicating via my computer and having as close to a shower as one can in an especially filthy public restroom. Before dawn we had packed up and were headed for the border.

From what I read in the news, I gather that the US has something of an issue with border crossings. Mexico has no such issue, I guess, because after the federales checked our bags a woman who I assumed to be the immigration officer pointed into her country and said “Go.” And we went. There was a fleeting trial associated with trying to acquire that lovely currency called el peso, but soon we hopped aboard a city bus for the Central de Autobuses. At that moment I knew we had made it, made the transition to traveling in Mexico. Figuring out public transportation and knowing that the rickety (route numbers were spray painted onto the windshield) old school bus you’re on is headed where to need to be is more than just a symbolic measure of your ability to exist in a country. At the central we were welcomed in and sent on our way to Monterrey within a quarter of an hour. The quality of the bus slapped us in the face as we boarded. For we travelers who had just spent over a day on a Greyhound, it felt like stepping into a royal palace. The bus had real air conditioning, not the “oooh, we’ve got freezing air coming from this phantom crack somewhere near the window” that the ‘hound offered. The seats afforded nearly horizontal reclination and they actually had movies playing (alibi dumb ones, but whatever.)

Susie, an MTW missionary, met us at the bus station in MTY and drove us in her dusty Subaru to Apodaca a city-like institution north of the actual Monterrey city where a man, Eraclio, and his family have begun a little church in what was once their home. We walked up the stairs into the sanctuary which was a medical clinic for the morning and James was reunited to his beau, Helen. I’ll spare you the mushy stuff; suffice it to say they were happy to see each other and they both smiled a lot.

We two newbies tried to make ourselves useful and were marginally successful. Early in the afternoon, the clinic was broken down to accommodate the afternoon’s vacation bible school for the neighborhood kids. They served us a wonderful meal and we were able to hang out with the folks there (teams of short term missionaries, interns, regular missionaries...you name it) which was great. Incidentally, there were guys there from both N.C. State and Duke, which proves the ubiquity of the ACC.

As with all VBSs, this one was largely a disorganized mass of tiny bodies and big toothy smiles—a fact that was made all more noticeable by the small language barrier that existed—but it was quite enjoyable nevertheless. When the “campamento del verano” began to wind down, I drifted from the sidewalk where kids were running relays into the narrow street in front of the church and joined in with mix of non-VBS attendees from the barrio tossing an American football. For the next hour and a half I played and talked with this rag-tag gang of boys which grew by the minute. I learned their names and took great pleasure in making them laugh as I showed off the sillier side of my Spanish. James joined in after a while. We were summoned back to the church by Helen to find we had missed the debrief for the day and that our streetside shenanigans were not smiled upon by the higher-ups. We apologized, but our attempt at contrition was met quite coldly and after diner I left, never to return.

[Here it must be noted that James was content to stay with the interns and short-terms (who were all awesome—not contributors to the coldness factor) owing in no small part to the fact that his novia was one of their number. This effectively left me on my own, but I could not complain because a short cab ride was the only thing between me and my return to el centro de Monterrey (as detailed in the post entitled “14 July 2008”)]

14 July 2008

Today James and I rolled into Monterrey. It marked the first time I have returned to an international destination. It didn’t hit me until I dropped James off at the hotel where Helen and the missionary folks are living. I flagged a cab ride into the “macroplaza” downtown and (after having possibly my best Spanish conversation to date) hopped out into an absolutely gorgeous Monterrey night. As I walked the length of the macro, I was delighted—delighted at the feel of a cool breeze brushing away any hint of mugginess, delighted at the sight of so many families and amantes and contemplative viejos all soaking in the same tranquil night. But most of all I was delighted that I knew the city. In March, I had spent hours simply walking around el centro and getting to know the lay of downtown. Now I was making a quiet but triumphal return.

I don’t know what made it so enjoyable—maybe it was the fact that nothing had changed, maybe it was because I recognized some people I’d seen before (like the crazed-looking astronomer with tangled Robert Plant hair and a dark, intricate mustache offering glances at the moon through his telescope. ). I think there must be something about returning to an out of the way place that grants you a degree of ownership, even if you’re the only one who knows about it. I sat down next to my backpack on one of Monterrey’s green park benches, packed a bowl of whiskey flavored tobacco in my pipe , and took my shoes off. For the better part of an hour I thought and prayed and watched as the groundskeeper for the park managed the legion of sprinklers and hoses feeding water to the many green things in the plaza. Perhaps I inhaled a bit too much smoke, but this nightly upkeep ritual was more beautiful than poetry to me. The woman, dressed appropriately in all green, walked an unhurried circuit around the park conducting a visual orchestra of flying and flowing water with a pair of large vice-grip pliers. The ensemble even broke into the tactile realm for passers-by. A young father playing with his son, both acting like kids while the lady of the family looked on and smiled contentedly. Two elderly lovers who were at first startled by the water but soon gave in to the feeling of a good mist and stood in an embrace in the path of the sprinkler.

Eventually, the bowl was finished and, after the profound ritual of cleaning the pipe, I retrieved my guitar from its case. The strings (brand new, they were) sounded wonderful and rich out there in the plaza and that drove me to play for some time. It was wonderful, recalling old songs I thought I had forgotten, easily picking out some that I had never played but which seemed to fit the moment. A couple whose age I could not tell was approaching and, hearing the sound of a few notes being picked, stopped to listen through one of the garden master’s streams of water. I kept playing and they stayed—at times sitting on a bench, at times standing and dancing in the slow, awkward, beautiful manner of those lacking the skill or energy to do anything else.

I left utterly pleased with the prospect of spending so many more nights in Mexico.