Taxco (Tas-Ko): silver, silver, silver, more silver, and a big fat mystery

I spent today in the fine town of Taxco. Ever since the Spaniards found out about the silver veins in Taxco’s hills there have been thousands of people slaving away to yank it out. Things have changed a bit since its establishment—the people aren’t actually slaves anymore and the mines no longer operate—but silver remains king here. The majority of shops in town are “Platerias”, selling all manner of shiny things including half-size silver jaguars and full-size silver frogs. But shopping was not high on the to-do list, so our motley crew of 9 (from 6 different countries) did a lot of looking.

More than the silver, we were charmed by the city’s beauty and winded by its steep, ally-like streets. We passed a thoroughly enjoyable morning and afternoon taking in the city and stopping for lunch and coffee along the way. It‘s the sort of city that I could get into. After just a few minutes in Taxco I decided that I would come back again to stay for a few days.

While city itself was delightful, the most interesting part of the day lay at the end of a Swiss-made “teleférico”, or cable car. Atop a mountain just outside Taxco's hillside sprawl are an aging hotel and a few pretty haciendas, all of whom enjoy an incredible view of Taxco and the surrounding mountains. After a turn around the fairly empty hotel, we stumbled upon a place far emptier. We took a little walk. A mere 100m down the street rose a beautiful, multi-terraced hacienda. Bea, a Spanish girl from Denmark, jokingly asked “how do we get up there?” referring to the house’s pristine top floor visible from the road. I was thinking of just how few people were able to enjoy the view from up there when we discovered that the gate to the house was wide open and the grounds looked to have been abandoned some time ago. Needless to say, this intrigued me.

As I walked in through the gate, it became evident that this was not a really nice house, it was the most incredible building I’d seen in all of México. The prime location was complemented by an absolutely beautiful, absolutely gigantic hacienda. The creative genius of this design could only be unleashed by the super-rich. And that made it so nonsensical. This architectural marvel had been abandoned—maybe for more than a year—just before it was finished. The landscaping had grown out of control in the front garden and the spectacular pool was half full of greenish-black water. An tiny, emaciated dog sat on the far side of the pool watching us, though seemingly too unhealthy to move. The whole picture was strange and not a little creepy. But by this time I simply had to explore the house so I pushed through the overgrown bushes and up to the main floor.

The creepiness factor plus my previous encounters with street dogs prompted me to have in hand a fair-sized rock which I reckoned would give me a bit of a mechanical advantage in the event that I had to crush someone/something’s skull. My first objective was to reach the top and take in the view which I did cautiously and without incident. The vista was by far the best the mountain had to offer and the wide open space of the highest terrace was quite tranquil. I was struck by the neatness of the place. Aside from a few broken pieces of masonry laying around, the hacienda was really in great shape. And aside from a broken tennis ball and a melted candle there were no signs of the sketchy revelry that often takes place in abandoned buildings. Presently everyone joined me at the top.

After a good while basking in the glory of our find, we spread out and got to know the place. In our subsequent exploration of the four other floors, including the naturally lighted, bat-laden labyrinth of a basement (only Erwan and I went down there), we counted at least 9 bedrooms, four of which had two formed concrete slabs for queen beds. The tilework in the bathrooms was exquisite and the master suite alone was probably larger than 90% of houses in México. All the while my head was spinning with questions as to how this happened, questions which merit further investigation. I mean, I’ve seen my fair share of aborted construction jobs in México—it’s fairly common to run out of dinero mid-project and bail—but this place was insane. On the very cusp of being Taxco’s nicest house, it was abandoned. Crazy. And kinda spooky. I was in the last group out of the house, still pondering the mystery of it. On the way back I fed the skeleton puppy half of my pb&j, partly out of compassion and partly because I thought that it would nice to have a friend there at the mystery house upon my return. And I do plan to return.

Speaking of returning, I have returned to my bed in peaceful, non-mysterious Cuernavaca. Now I shall sleep.

PS: Photo Guide: 1.) The group (minus Erwan) at a church above downtown Taxco 2.)Erwan, your typical Frenchman, and I in the cable car 3.) Me scouting out the main floor of the hacienda—note the fair-sized rock.

Wednesday is my slack day

Wednesday is my slack day. Slack day as opposed to free day. Free days come with some degree of obligation to use them well. Slack days assign no such responsibility. I have class at 4pm, but the grand part of the day is straight-up relaxation. I didn’t sleep particularly late (8:00 for all those keeping score), but the tempo of this rainy morning has been wonderfully slow. My “parents” here don’t get up until ten or eleven every day which means that Scott and I have the house to ourselves for a few hours on the slack days. We washed a joint load of clothes and watched the Olympic recap while chopping banana into our customary Special K. I never had much of a palate for the stuff, but Zucaritas (the Mexican face of Frosted Flakes, complete with Tigre Toño) and Choco Krispies always seem far less appealing in the morning. And the whole milk helps.

It’s getting on toward eleven now and I’ve come down the mountain and lit for the first time at my friendly neighborhood pasteleria (place where they make and sell cakes) and café to write a bit before I head into town for lunch. With the rich smell of locally roasted Chiapas coffee beans drifting up from my Americano, I can’t help but be grateful that this piece of pre-yuppie culture has made it into the heart of México. Coffee shops. It’s a good thing they’re here because I’ve conditioned myself to do my very best work in coffee shops (or cafés as they are called here—and the idea of doing work in them is pretty foreign. But heck, so am I). In addition to a workspace, and perhaps more importantly, these places have been serving as a no-mans-land. A place to step out of straight México into a parallel México where I can process, take notes, read in English (I try to refrain from it as much as possible otherwise), or what have you. A bit of respite.

In the parallel México I can still practice Spanish, talking with the owners and baristas, but generally these people are not like your average José. They care less about impressing you, less about being polite and more about really communicating. This is refreshing because most people don’t actually care what you say—just smile and agree with a “que bueno!” or a deluge of their own thoughts and polite blabbering which makes it easy to chat and hard to converse. To actually have someone intently trying to understand you and help you out is a luxury here.

In one of my classes, I had to write an essay about “Luces y Sombras” (lights and shadows, good things and bad things) of my life in Cuernavaca. All of my “lights” had to do with the people, but so did the shadows. I wrote that my main beef with the Cuernavaca experience was that no one (Mexican) wanted to broach the tough subjects, no one wanted to have what I would call a real conversation. I mean, if I’m going to learn a language I would like reach the level of actually using it. I don’t consider myself a real intellectual, but like the way they talk. I want to have the option of speaking deeply in Spanish and being fluently, intelligently contrary if I want to be. But I don’t think they teach that here. I’ve learned from conversations, my own and those I overhear on the street, that most Mexicanos are really happy to talk for days about things that everyone agrees on. And conversations can be controversial as long as all the conversers are on the same side of the controversy. (say that a few times fast)

But the way I see it, if you and another person are totally on the same page about something you probably don’t need to talk a lot about it—that’s not communication, just reiteration. It’s the union of two different angles, the gentle give and take…the friction that makes communication beautiful. And worthwhile. Indeed, some of the very best conversations I’ve had have been with people of opposite and immovable opinions. Here interpersonal communication has been greased up, pared down, and streamlined so that it’s basically against the rules to create friction.

I’m trying to reconcile that with the huge protests that happen in Cuernavaca nearly every week. On Monday I was returning home from a trip to the mystical town of Tepoztlan and got stuck in downtown CVA for hours as thousands upon thousands of people blocked every major thoroughfare in the heart of the city. As I sat in a café reading Ocatavio Paz (a Mexican “intellectual” whose Spanish is beautiful and whose cultural commentary has been a much-needed counterweight to the shallow mainstream), el centro roared in protest of poor education, stolen property rights, and general unrest. It’s so strange that when these non-confrontational people gather by the thousands, they can become a clamoring mass unafraid of aggravating an entire city’s worth of motorists and commuters. These people who, on their own, would not even dare to correct you if you said their name wrong.

Welcome to Southern México.

Aspectos Culturales: a caleb-shaped peg

It's pleasant.

Sitting here on my bed listening to the nightly rain shower, I can't help but feel that the weather here in Cuernavaca is about as good as it gets. I've been told that it's the rainy season, but here, the rainy season consists of beautiful sunny days and an ever-reliable hour-long rain storm every night just about the time I go to bed. Wherever I am in the house, I can always hear the first huge drops pummeling the pool cover and I know that I need to run on up the stairs and hop into bed soon so I can drift off to the rhythm (or aryhthm) of the rain through the windowscreens.

But tonight I think I'll be up a little later than the shower. I very much want to give a quick update on the Cuernavaca life. I've had two weeks now to get to know the place and a small fraction of its people and on the whole I really really like it.

First though, I must say that there are parts of me that just refuse to integrate into south-central Mexican society. An example. My first assignment in "Communication Skills" was to find out how to say "No" in Mexico. You see, in a lot of westernish places, it's understood that when a person declines an offer or advance with an English "no" they actually mean to decline said offer. When a girl says "no, i won't dance with you" the would-be partner understands that he is the won't-be. When a person says "no, I can't come to the party" the host crosses them off the list. In Mexico, a "no" often met with an intensified, more ardent plea to accept the original offer. Strange. And puzzling. Very interested in this peculiarity, I went to ask some Mexican friends from the Casa de Huespedes (guesthouse) about this tendency. Basically what they told me was that in Mexican culture (southern especially), giving a straight-up "No." is unacceptably rude. Therefore, when you say no, people simply infer that you are waiting to be persuaded because a nice person like you wouldn't be so uncouth. Surely you're just playing a hard sell.

Ok, a little cultural politeness I can handle. But the kicker was when my friends said that to actually make people understand that you are saying no you should say something along the lines of "We'll see..." or "Next time, for sure". People generally understand this to really mean no. When I heard this, I thought back on my journey through the republic and it became evident that it was indeed the truth. It struck me as mildly infuriating because it leaves you with an entire culture of people whose most effective way of saying "no" is to say "yes."

Now maybe I'm just hopelessly westernized, Americanized, Bruce Willisized, or what have you, but I like saying no. I like saying no and having that mean "negative, ghostrider, the pattern is full." The prospect of saying "yeah, I want to do that" to something I don't want to do leaves a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. I know I want the whole immersion shebang, but is it OK to conscientiously abstain from select parts of the culture? And would such a conscientious abstinence leave me here with no way to say "no?"

I like to say no.

I also like to have a beard. That's really not too cultural here either.

I also like to walk for miles and miles to get to know the lay of the land, the streets, the sights, smells, sounds and all the decent coffee shops. When I told my Mexican family and friends about a particularly long trek from my house to my school with 2 lonely pesos in my pocket they absolutely could not understand. Like such an endeavor had no basis in reality for them.

Alas, and not without some tacit satisfaction on my part, my brain does not function like a good Mexican brain. My heart does not beat like a good Mexican heart. Guess I'm not Mexican.

But one thing's for sure, my stomach might as well be 100% Mexicano! And food is culture. So the slate of cultural misgivings and incompatability is wiped clean at least 3 times every day!

Believe me, the gastronomy is not the only reason that I love being here in Mexico, and I can't wait to recount some of the great delights of living, working, exploring, and thinking here. But pardon me, the rain just began again and I am going to take full advantage of this wave of lullaby showers. Much Love. Goodnight.

Tec Orientation: Culture Lessons and Lots of French People

For the past week or so, we international students have been roving as one big group (40-something) getting to know the system, the area, and each other. I think everyone is from either Europe or the States. Oddly the largest showing is from the French but there are also people from a bunch of countries that you never think about all that much (e.g. Finland, Denmark, Sweden). There are some really cool folks and, though hanging out with them inevitably means speaking a lot of English, it has been quite a pleasure to chill with them in the evenings, playing guitar or discovering the city bit by bit.

Though the schedule for the week included plenty of cultural information, the most prominent lesson has been that “schedules” are more or less simply a suggestion here in Mexico. I don’t think anything has begun or ended on time yet. Though this has been a bit frustrating for those coming from time-sensitive European cultures, it has only strengthened my suspicion that this semester is going to be the perfect respite from the breakneck pace and save-the-world mentality of my darling Chapel Hill.

Upon this realization, I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxation, turned down yet another offer to smoke pot, and played “Wagon Wheel” for a bunch of Frenchmen, Frenchwomen, and other assorted Europeans.

(ps...this post written 7 days before publish date...I'm working on Mexican time)

Cuernavaca: Welcome Home

I suppose it’s been over a week since I arrived here and I think I’ve made the transition from scruffy young backpacker to scruffy young exchange student (indeed, I’m still toying with the idea of not shaving at all this semester…stay tuned for updates on that one).

James and I stayed at a guesthouse here for a bit and met some great, great people. It was awesome to realize that I’m here in Mexico for a while and I don’t have to say goodbye all the time like we did when we were traveling. James left on the second day and is safely returned to the states. I was sorry to see him go because he’s quite a good companion on the road and it signified a change in the style of adventure. Before, I was free to move as I pleased, do as I pleased, for as long as I pleased (sounds quite selfish, huh? ), now I was shackled to Cuernavaca (CVA). I hoped very much that I would like the place.

On the 29^th, I called my host family to ask when I should come over. Now, my ability to understand Spanish had skyrocketed since crossing the border, but making calls in Spanish is a whole different ballgame; there are no nonverbal signals—no lips to read, no facial expressions or hand motions to interpret. With a little help from their son Isaac who speaks pretty good English I told them I’d be there soon.

When I stepped out of the taxi I could tell that this was to be no ordinary home-stay. I don’t know if Mexico has a Beverly Hills, but if it does, that’s where I’m staying. I was greeted with utter warmth by the dad of the family, Juan Manuel, and ushered into the house. The abundance of flatscreen TVs, the domed cupolas, and the pristine pool in the backyard told me that this was not your average Mexican family. I quickly realized that living there would not be your average Mexican existence, but I quickly decided not to complain about it. For the first half hour Juan Manuel and his bride, Aurora Ortiz, kept saying things like “Estas en tu casa, estas en tu familia” (you are in your house, you are in your family). I felt almost too welcome.

I went to check out the lay of the land and came back to a full, tasty meal. As I finished up, my roommate came in, direct from Burlington, NC. Scott had just graduated a few weeks prior and was coming down to practice Spanish and have some fun before entering the “workforce.” A really easy-going fellow from the South and eager to speak Spanish instead of English a lot of times, he’s been a fine guy to live with.

Tuesday morning, we headed up the long hill to one of two “Tec de Monterrey” campuses and confirmed our status of “estudiantes internacionales.”

Puerto Escondido: Riptides and Espresso

We lucked out with accommodations in Puerto Escondido (that’s “providenced out” for all my hardcore reformed readers) in that we were far away from the tourist epicenter of the little town. El Barko del Amor (the loveboat) hostel was owned and run by a group of Italians who gave the heartiest “Holaaa!”s I’ve ever heard. It was a wonderful place where Jim Morrison of “the Doors” was evidently a patron saint and whose customer constituency was also mostly Italian (except for the decidedly Mexican bedbugs).

James was able to rent a tabla (yeah, surfboard) and hit the waves and I was able to spend some time reading, reviving my computer, washing clothes, and reorganizing all my gear for the triumphal arrival to Cuernavaca.

After fixing dinner on the beach, chillin’ in the hammocks, sampling Italian café, and shopping at the Super Che, it was time to wish all the Italians goodbye and take the night bus to Acapulco and after a relaxing morning in that fading playground of the rich and famous we took the breathtaking journey north to Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico.

That’s where I am now.

San Cristobal: a beautiful layover

We stopped in San Cristobal de las Casas long enough to cool down and jam out.

Palenque: on and off the beaten path

The Mayan ruins at Palenque were, from the beginning, meant to be a focal point of the journey. They did not disappoint. We found a crazy cabana/camping village called “El Panchan” where we could hang our hammocks for 25 pesos per night (USD 2.50). As we walked in through the maze of drugged up hippies and tepid streams we could hear Hotel California drifting through the trees and it was immediately evident that El Panchan was something of a twilight zone for many young backpackers. Though the complex is not too far into the jungle, it gives a beautiful taste of the wild side of Chiapas (the southernmost Mexican state). An army of cats and dogs keep the creepy crawlies and jaguars at bay and, provided that you are in possession of a mosquito net, a hammock in the jungle is an incredibly pleasant place to pass the night. The morning we got to town, we met some German guys and some Belgian girls with whom we passed the day visiting some famous, super-touristy waterfalls and riding back through the mountains in the back of a pickup truck as the sun eased down into the crux of two faraway hills like a flaming asteroid into a bowl of piping hot lav. That night we were eating with the same folks and decided that in the morning we were going to experience the ruins the way it was meant to be done.

Before the sun, James and I swung out of our hammocks and slung our packs over our shoulders. Mist rolled over the narrow road as went to awaken our comrades. The Belgians, Ellen and Belle were up and ready to go and soon we were back on the road to the ruins. A few hundred meters before the first guard station we dove into the forest at the side of the road. Thus began almost two hours of trekking through the jungle with only a rough estimate of where we were headed. We were questioning our sense of direction when, atop a saddle in the hills, we found a pile of stones. Upon inspection we could see that the stones had been hewn (spl?) to their rough rectangular shape and that the pile was originally stacked to form of a wall. Whoa. There we were in the middle of a nearly untrodden jungle next to a structure that had been there for almost a millennium. Needless to say, this gave even more impetus to our quest for Palenque and on we plunged on through thick and thin. As we got closer and closer to the excavated site, we ran upon more and bigger ruined structures of stone. We were walking along the top of something that must have been enormous back in the day (think small stacked-stone ridgeline with squared corners) when we caught a glimpse of a brilliant, white temple—much less ruined than the one upon which we stood. We climbed down into a creekbed and turned a few heads when we pulled ourselves up the other side, rising to our feet not 25m from the central pyramid.

It’s kind of bad, but we found it hard to count ourselves equal to all the other tourists at the site, especially when we went back to the river to cool off around midday. Mere meters off the main path we found a series of jungle waterfalls that might as well have been paradise.

A quest not to be forgotten, the day at Palenque ended in town with a pizzeria send off for our German and Belgian friends. After another wonderful roofless shower and night in the hammocks, we made for the colonial legacy and cool climate to be found in San Cristobal de las Casas.