Mexico, cycling Britain, then Barcelona

http://www.gurneysjourneys.com/cycling_blog.htm
August 1st 2006

i just spent 245 quid in preparation for my much talked about cycling trip. As promised i am approaching the trip as a novice, scoring between zero and very little on the following: training, knowledge of bicycle maintenance, route planning, fancy cycling equipment. I did (within the 245) purchase paddded cycling shorts - which i am told are crucial, nappy rash cream, and camping gear.

Today’s mission was emptying the shopping bags and squeezing the contents into panniers and a handlebar bag. Due to my addiction to the internet, my laptop had to come, and in these crazy days of technology, various chargers and cables took up at least a 2 litres of the 45 available. When the packed bike fell over in the garden, i couldn’t pick it up again. Finally, with a few random items tied on the back, and a pile of culled items on the floor i was ready to go for a test drive, minus water. It could have been worse. The handling is dodgy, but possible, and my helmet looks utterly ridiculous.

August 2nd (Cycling Camelford to Dolton)
Today i set off. I cheated massively by getting driven the first ten miles, with the bike hanging out of the boot. I’m on holiday - if i’m offered a lift, i’m not fool enough to turn it down. I ended up going even further than planned in the car as it started raining.. i refused to get out until we had driven away from the clouds.

My first major error of the day was finding the fantastically signed cycle route, but going in the wrong direction for two miles. The moorland looked beautiful as i realised the hill was on the wrong side.

I think it is a sign of me being properly grown up that i can show myself in public dressed like this. All thoughts of style or not looking like a complete prune are flung out of the window when you put safety first and wear a cycle helmet - combined with lycra and my mexico (quick dry) football shirt. My sunglasses are fashion, but i can’t help thinking something with a yellow lense would actually look better with the rest of this get up.

The roads across Bodmin moor were stunning, sheep, a resevoir, so much space, and rocky outcrops in the distance. My first cattle grid was a bit of a disappointment. Honestly, everything is much more of a challenge when you have little thin tyres and twenty kilos hanging over your back wheel. There were two workman by the road, and the thought of sliding on the metal and crashing made me stop and walk the grid. What a chicken! I managed two properly after that, without an audience.

The other danger i face on the trip is wobbling into cars. My brilliant plan is to cycle near the middle of the road, then swerve over at the last minute to make sure i have room. But it only works when there is one car. If there are cars following each other then i swerve to the side start wobbling about near the hedge and have to hope that the other cars give me plenty of space. I’ve only been hooted at once - an uphill section where a bus overtook me. I did well to steer clear of the bus, but didn’t realise there was a car behind and slammed on the brakes inches before my front wheel hit the wing of his car. It all took place at low speeds, the really jumpy moments are on long straight B roads when a lorry (most of whom are very good) misjudges it and the wing mirror skims past your ear.

I picked up cycle route three again after cutting a corner to avoid Bude. The route follows a railway cutting into Holsworthy where i collapsed next to the church to eat lunch.

After a long break here it got hideous. Tiny white roads that dip along dark shady lanes to the river. The only thought as you are braking heavily and winding your way down is how steep the hill the other side could possibly be. When i collapsed in the hedge half way up a hill I attracted the attention of the farmer (the only people that ever use these roads). He jumped out of the cab of his combine harvester to check that i was alive and well.

A few miles of A roads later, and after nearly eight hours in the saddle i arrived in the cute village of Dolton with a costcutter and three pubs. Hooray. My average speed for the day (excluding lunch break) was 5 mph. I don’t think that’s very good.

www.gurneysjourneys.com

Tuesday 27th September
 
There were several factors leading to me almost missing the five am bus. I woke up an hour early due to alarm setting problems, I didn’t sleep well due to the coffee right before bed, and I had weird dreams where I thought I was awake. I’ve never had that before and it’s very odd.
The eleven year old boy woke me up just in time and I ran round corner under the orange sky through a huge plume of exhaust smoke to jump on the bus. Damn I forgot to leave them a tip.
I had heard the road to San Manuel was terrible, but it seemed fine to me – until we drove through a river. Maybe in dry season it is more like a ford, but on this day it was rushing and at least two foot deep.
Arriving in San Manuel a little girl in dirty pink shorts grabbed me. She actually came right up and wrapped her arms around my middle. I wasn’t fool enough to think this was sweet, but employed her as my guide for the next twenty minutes. There is definitely a tourist dilemma going on here. I clearly have more money in my backpack than these people see in six months, but if I just hand it out it will surely encourage begging from tourists on future occasions. Not only would these people be throwing away their dignity if they started begging, but it would ruin the experience for future tourists. Instead I try to pay for services – guides being the obvious one, but also tipping in comedors and hospedajes (except I was too rushed this morning), and just generally trying to buy as much as possible. Like setting off for a six hour hike yesterday carrying a litre of pineapple wine. That was a very practical purchase.
So, after the girl has shown me the church (which is impressive but looking a bit black round the edges), and the flower garden, I give her a tip and tell her to go away. She doesn’t. I know the tip should have gone to her mother when I see what she does with it; straight to the shop for crisps and bubble gum.
As she is still hanging on to me in the comedor, I share my breakfast with her, but then sneak away to get down to the river.
I am so tired I desperately want a meadow next to a gently flowing river where I can sleep. But nothing goes to plan. There is no meadow. From my first doze on a rock I was woken by a load of cows about three feet away from me – I nearly screamed I got such a shock. The man herding the cows didn’t quite know what to make of me.
At my next stop, a grassier area, I was just arranging a space to lie when I noticed my left foot was alive with ants. Luckily no one was around when I reacted by ripping off my shoes socks and trousers to shake them out. I hopped around madly for a minute because the little bastards were biting, changed my trousers and shook everything before moving to a better spot. Due to lack of sleep and an extremely low level of mental functioning I manage to move to a different spot, step on a second ants nest and repeat the process - without going so far as needing to change my trousers again.
The day is not going as planned. To get away from the ants I spend the next two hours sitting on a rock in the middle of the river. Not so comfortable, but warm, and very practical for washing my clothes and …..my hair! Yes, today I washed my hair in a river. I never believed I would do that, but having just purchased shampoo and with all the insect action it feels great to be clean. Well as clean as the river water anyway. As far as using soap goes…I know it is wrong, but all the locals do it too.
A few locals come and visit me on my rock. Sebastian is working down the road digging out sand to sell. That is what I call scraping out a living – a bag of sand can’t cost very much in these parts. He also has family in the states, one brother in Virginia, another in LA. They actually find me a lot more normal now I am washing in the river rather than hiking around with no purpose other than looking at the hills.
During and after lunch I am scouting around for a ride to La Campa, the next village, where I can find accommodation. The potential lifts are the Unicef workers, a guy who has a meeting with a women’s cooperative, and the “bimbo” delivery boys. (Bimbo is a type of bread, they also do a range of cake products which are available anywhere). So I am just waiting to see who finishes first.
The little girl (no, I can’t remember her name, I was too tired) is back and asking for more money. She followed me everywhere, yes, even to the bathroom. It even got to the point where I threatened to hit her over the head with a bottle. It was a plastic bottle, and she was refusing to apologise for “accidentally” smacking me round the head with it. I really started to wonder where the parents were when her brother hurled a palm sized rock from twenty metres and nearly hit her.
At three pm a lift with the Honduran equivalents of Wayne and Waynetta was offered. The truck was a mess with squeakier brakes than my car, and the accelerator pedal was lying on the floor. The man was wearing a vest, not actually string, but he had the stubble and the large belly to go with it. During the journey Waynetta took her dentures out, started picking her ear with a match, and was regularly coughing up phlegm and spitting it out the window. Nice.
I paid them the same price as the bus – more than they asked for, and was pleased to find that the village of La Campa was the first village in two days that didn’t smell of shit. Well the comedor down the bottom of town really stank, but apart from that it was roses.
There is a beautifully kept lawn facing the church and a nearby canyon makes for an impressive backdrop. When I asked around in the shops for somewhere to stay I ended up in Carmen’s house, and she is loaded compared to anyone I’ve met recently. The house has tiled floors, furniture, and an indoor bathroom with dodgy wires taped to the shower head indicating hot water. Excellent.
 
Wednesday 28th September
 
After a fantastic warm and comfortable night I am toying with the idea of trying for a hot shower, but (as always seems to happen when there is a promise of hot water), there is no water at all. In fact the toilet has not been flushed for several hours and the inside bathroom is rank. These people are trying to be too posh for the facilities around them, if they had stuck with a bathroom outside they would be able to flush the toilet.
After a morning exploring the village I decide I can bear another day or two away from civilisation and set off on a very random mission.
Lempira is a famous Indian who fought off the Spanish successfully for a while before being killed and his people utterly conquered. The hill on which he had a fortress is a long hike from a nearby village called Caiquin. Apparently it is possible to hike from Caiquin, past the fort, to a place called Erandique. I have developed some kind of obsession with seeing this fortress and decide to go to Caiquin and find a guide to take me there.
The bus left at one pm, and after three attempts at getting up a muddy hill it made it to Caiquin. The accommodation is a big step down. I am offered a musty bed in someone’s garage, when I ask for covers she just takes a manky blanket off the next bed and gives it to me. Hmmm.
Hanging out in the kitchen waiting for food I watch the women making tortillas from scratch. An important life skill I am sure. They grind up the cooked maize to make flour, then mash it up in a bowl and roll it out into tortillas with a stone rolling pin. I have seen similar rolling implements in the Olmec museum in Veracruz, which means people have used this same technology for about two thousand years. Well, if it works, stick with it I guess.
I eat with the bus boys, who also live in this house, and notice that only I, the guest, am offered a fork. The locals use tortillas as cutlery and still manage to scoop up all the beans. Impressive.
Heading back down the muddy track to the church (always the centre of town) I am looking for a guide. Most people have no idea what I am talking about, and then I find Doris who is extremely helpful and takes me to her Uncle, Vicente. There is some debate about which hill exactly I am looking for and everyone tells me that getting to Erandique is impossible (Oooof, very very far). In the end he offers to take me on a day hike to a hill called “Caraquin” which, according to the family, is the same as “Cerquin”, it’s just that different books use different names. So my hike for tomorrow is arranged, I will be here at 7 am.
Before heading back to my musty room Doris, her daughter Daniella, and several other children take me on a twenty minute walk up to Santa Elena hill. The little ones are brilliant, very happy and interested to talk to me. After the walk eating at the comedor and playing with a skipping rope on the lawn is an absolute pleasure. All the kids from the village seem to be there, and they are all having fun. Once they learn my name they won’t leave me alone, but in a nice way. After dark the family settle in the dining room to watch appalling Mexican telenovelas, and I start thinking about heading back to my shed. There seem to be distinct stages in the use of electricity in the villages. When it is new they don’t use it, when they discover tv it changes their routine and they stay up after dark watching shite, and probably don’t talk to each other as much. In the villages that have had electricity much longer, the youth have discovered the internet and can be found chatting online, (better then tv?). In the western world there was a huge gap between discovering television and the internet, here in Honduras they get everything at once I can’t help thinking there is a thesis in there somewhere about how the technology affects their lives.
When I get back to my bed the situation has worsened. There is some kind of religious meeting going on in the lounge and with no electricity I am forced to spend the next forty minutes huddled in my musty bed next to a candle listening through the wall to a man shout enthusiastically about god. He goes on and on, the rantings getting louder and louder. He is trying to get his congregation to shout too, but in the dark and the cold, on a normal evening, can the seven people he is raving at really see it in them to rejoice in the wonder of the world and give thanks for the maize and their broken shoes? It doesn’t sound like it. After he has said he is going to finish three times, he finally does and I can unclench my teeth. On my way back from the dark outside toilet I bump into some people leaving and am horrified to see some young children, maybe ten years old, coming out - poor bastards having to sit through that instead of having normal fun interactions with the other children at Doris’.
 
Thursday 29th September
 
After breakfast with Doris, who is my new best friend, I make it over to Vicente’s for the big hike. He has a horse. I told him I didn’t want to go on horseback, and I end up walking behind his bestia most of the way there - apart from the few uncomfortable sections where I feel so much pressure I get on the animal myself. I am too skinny for riding; my bony arse bumps around on the saddle in a most uncomfortable manner.
After two and a half hours we arrive in Guanajulco, and I can see the hill. Apparently a football team went up there recently for a photo shoot.
When we arrive in the village Vicente introduces me to almost all the members of his family that are not in the States. I get fed three times, and offered coffee twice. Vicente seems to think I want to stay the night, and there is a slightly awkward moment when I have to turn down the hospitality and explain that I really want to get back today (I need a bit of civilisation, and some different food). I thought we arranged that yesterday, but in the future I will double check these things.
After the first round of food, before I have put my foot down about getting back to Doris’ today, there is some confusion about why I wanted to come all this way to see a hill. Don’t I want to climb the hill? Or at least go into the foothills? They don’t quite believe me when I tell them I just wanted to see it, and that now I’d like to go home again please. To keep my guide happy I go with the men for a hike down to the river, and to a spot where we can get a better view of the hill – it does indeed seem a bit pointless, we get to the maize field and I’m like “yup, there it is, again”.
Plus with this extra walk I am force to cross a river on a thin log. On the way back the three macho guys who have been spitting a lot, and trying to hit birds with their catapults, see me fall off the log and just manage to save myself by grabbing some rocks with my hands. I ended up crawling across the river. Very elegant.
After seeing the famous hill, I chat to various family members about it and discover that it is unquestionably the wrong hill. Cerquin is a very different hill, and is a very long way from here. Oh.
When I have been taken to the house of every brother, sister, and parent, we finally leave. There are only two and a half hours of daylight and the way back is uphill. After climbing the steep first half an hour I am having my red in the face overheating problem. I can tell it’s bad from the scared look on the face of my guide. After about forty minutes of flat I am nearly back to a normal colour. Much as I like Vicente I am seriously running out of conversation topics by now. I can’t ask about his family any more because I have met them all. I don’t understand what he actually does for money so I can’t ask about that again, and I just don’t know anything about farming. I try to get ideas by watching a conversation with another local, but they talk about what a great looking bull the guy is leading. I wouldn’t have known if it was a good one or not.
We make quite a pace, and even after a short heavy rainstorm we do it in two hours. Which leaves me back in Caiquin after sunset with no real hope of getting a lift back to the nearest town, Gracias. I cannot stand another night with the religious fanatics, and Doris very kindly offers me her bed, she will sleep with her daughter. I try and keep smiling, but wearing wet clothes I am getting chilli, and a cold shower is not a great prospect.
I think they pick up on my desperation when by some miracle (!) a truck is heading out of town. I go haring across the church garden, straight through the enormous puddle, and flag down the vehicle with shouting and frantic waving. Yes they are going to Gracias, and yes they will wait a couple of minutes.
I say farewell to my new friends from the village, and apart from the call of a hot shower, am genuinely sad to leave. I want to give the children enormous hugs, but there isn’t really time for all that. Before I know it I have my bag on my lap and am sitting on the back of a pick up, on a pile of logs with three adolescent boys. The ride wasn’t so bad at the beginning - there was something soft to sit on, and I was laughing and joking away at the prospect of a proper hotel. I was still finding the situation highly amusing through the first rainstorm, during which we cowered together under a giant black bin bag. It was the perfect end to my adventure, bouncing along dirt roads, through the occasional river, in the pitch black and trying not to get drenched. By the third rainstorm it was a slightly different story, the cold was setting in and the hormonal kid next to me had decided to use the huddling as an excuse to touch my leg. It was quite sweet in a way.
I missed my chance to get out in the centre of town because I was curled up buried under plastic, and ended up at the rather posh house of the family. It was still chucking down, so in true Honduran hospitality style they invited me in, but I was soaking wet and muddy so I was on a plastic chair in the corner shivering, while they sat on plush sofas watching cable on a flat screen tv. The coffee helped me warm up, but I needed to get out of my wet clothes. One final random situation before I left was when I asked to use the toilet. As usual the indoor bathroom didn’t function properly and smelt very odd, but unusually, in a slightly over familiar gesture, I was lead into the bathroom to use the toilet whilst one of the adolescents was in the shower. They were behind the curtain and there I was doing my business. When you are invited into someone’s house you really are treated like one of the family!
When the rain dropped off a bit I ventured out to get a taxi to the hotel and in a classic traveller situation I turned up at reception soaked to the bone, treading mud everywhere asking please for a bed and a hot shower.
I don’t know whether I have ever had a better shower. I had spent the last three hours soaking wet waiting for that moment.
 
Friday 30th September
 
In my small hiking bag from the last five days there is nothing clean to wear. The best I can manage is a one day old t-shirt and my tracksuit bottoms rolled up to hide the mud. Thankfully my shoes have dried out, but they STINK.
At a pleasant breakfast in the hotel (no tortillas!) I met some “local” gringos – a couple of teachers from the bi-lingual private school, and a Dutch man who is planning to buy land and move to the area. The school is owned by a Dutch lady, and I find myself hoping that these people are doing good for Honduras as well as making their own profits (and by good I don’t mean moving here to take a twenty year old Honduran wife). Having English conversation is great!
On the quick trip to Santa Rosa to collect the rest of my stuff I am shocked by the busyness of the bus. Especially since on this ride I am the one who smells really bad. When I get back to Gracias there is rain, rain, dinner, more rain, and bed.
 
Saturday 1st October
 
Now this is what I call a rest day. I put in a bit of time for the guide book by giving it to the local Dutchwoman and asking her to write in corrections (cheat!) and watched nearly two movies. Monster-in-law with JLo was spectacularly bad, whilst Tomb Raider 2 was above expectations, until all of the channels got cut off by more rain. I finished my tv marathon a little later with World Series Poker on ESPN. They all wear sunglasses and I haven’t got a clue what is going on.
Eventually I brave the rain to go and meet some British folk for dinner. I’m not best pleased when the grumpy woman at my new hotel catches me on the way out. She tells me off for arriving back at 11pm last night, and says I am lucky the door was open because they normally close it at ten. Bloody village life, it’s all about getting up early. I ask her if there’s a key or a doorbell to get in later (it is Saturday after all) but she says neither of these things exist. Hmph. So my chemical filled Chinese dinner (the kind of sauce that looks like it would glow in the dark) is cut short and I am back with the tv (as loud and disturbingly as possible) by ten.
 
Sunday 2nd October
 
I spent three and a half hours on the computer, mostly working on guide book stuff. Then when I started to go cross-eyed I headed for the public swimming pool. It would have been a great afternoon hang out if I had any friends! As it was I spoke to some teenage boys in very basic English, while they played in a boat on a very small lake. If I had been here with someone silly enough I would have been on that waterslide and in that lake.
Then, what do you know, that very evening I find some Canadian lads who are also going to Celaque mountain. The day culminates in a shack on a hillside in the rain. The lads teach me some poker by candlelight (I’m not quite world series standard yet) and share their rum.
 
Monday 3rd October
 
5am: The alarm goes off and everyone promptly goes back to sleep.
6am: I open the window to let in light and encourage movement.
7am: We have just finished breakfast in a shed, which is the house of an old Honduran couple. One of our party has been attacked by a large turkey, and we are buying firewood.
8am: We are waiting for Jamie to come out of the shitter.
8 15am: We finally leave. Man that’s some faffing.
The 3 lads were a bit gung ho, but I was carrying less so it balanced out. We went to look at a waterfall and then followed a sketchy path down to the river, I fell over like 3 times.. it was steep. After the path completely disappeared we gave up and climbed back where we came from. It was when we got to the top for lunch that Ben realised his rucksack was hanging open and his passport had fallen out somewhere below. doh. I left the boys to search and set up camp, and headed back into town.
The worst thing about this walk in the woods was the spiders webs across the path that you were constantly walking into. The best thing was the random fungus, the jigsaw shaped bark and the weird red things that looked like flowers at the top, but had no green on them anywhere, not even the stem.
When I was nearly back from the very cloudy mountain I got attacked by the turkey. I never realised they were viscous, but I was walking past thinking how enormous and ugly it was and it started sqawking and then flew/jumped at my leg with its claws out. It had a blue head with pink bits and it jumped at me about 5 times before eventually letting me pass. It wasn`t too scary though, once I had sussed its moves I could easily have kicked it… but I don`t think the poor old Honduran couple who owned it would have been best pleased if I damaged their prize possession.
I missed the short cut because I was too busy trying to find the fluffy cover bit for my headphone and took the long route home. Is it terribly wrong to be walking around a national park listening to hip hop? I say no. hooray for the iPod.

www.gurneysjourneys.com

Thursday 22nd September
 
A morning tour of Guatemala city taking in Zone 10 (didn’t seem very exciting at 9 am), the botanical garden, the main square in zone 1, and a bit of the market. Should I get a t-shirt made “I went to zone 1 and nobody shot me.” I mean it was a poorer neighbourhood, and if you read the tabloids you hear about people getting shot there every day. But as I’m not in a gang, or trying and rip anyone off, and I didn’t go at night, I figured I might just survive.
In the botanical garden I tucked into my rough guide history of Guatemala, the US got stuck in to mess up what was promising to be a successful liberal government in the 40’s, and the civil war was brutal. At the cathedral there are columns with the names of the people who were executed, massacred, disappeared, and tortured. A lot of names.
I enjoyed being away from the tourists for a while, and figuring stuff out for myself. I got the bus back to my hotel. Obviously I didn’t get the right bus, that would have been almost impossible to find. I followed where we went on the map and spent a lot of time thinking “please turn left soon”, before bailing and walking fifteen minutes to get back.
The bus to Esquipilas was comfortable (first class) but slow and when I arrived in the dark I thought it was too late to cross the border into Honduras. But no, a man came at me shouting the place I wanted to go and so I jumped in his taxi.
Crossing the border in the dark didn’t seem like a stupid thing to do until a drunk man started talking/hassling me on the bus to Nuevo Ocotepeque. The dark and the rain and the drunk man were the bad first impressions, but there were good things too. Two people on the bus helped me get rid of the drunk bloke. The woman in front actually took me to my hotel in a tricycle taxi with a roof. I was laughing at the little contraption as we scooted a hundred meters up a bumpy road. This town is strange, the road to the hotel is mud and gravel and small rivers, but the side roads are beautifully paved.
Oh and another fantastic first impression: when I walked up to the window at immigration the officer was sitting in his smart uniform playing a guitar and singing. He finished the verse before taking my passport! And the guide book took me to a great hotel, all I need to get done tonight is my washing, and my room has a wall full of drying racks and a fan!!!!! Purfick.
 
 
Friday 23rd September
 
Well as it turned out, this is Honduras, and the drying racks weren’t much use to me because there was no water last night. Let alone the hot water shower I had been promised. In every other respect the hotel is great.
I’m a travel guide book writer today and I wander about chatting to people in hotels and restaurants before getting on a bus to Santa Rosa.
Arriving in the city centre I can’t help noticing how many expensive cars are parked on the streets. I guess, like any country, there are rich people in certain places. On the whole this country is extremely poor, it is one of only two latin American countries on the G8 cancel the debt list. I got an idea of how poor when I received change and was handed my first 1 lempira bills. 1 lempira is worth less than 10 cents (US), and they have a note???
Overall I am liking Honduras much more than Guatemala. The people are very friendly and I am practicing loads of Spanish (this may have something to do with the fact that I am still a guide book writer and as such I have a reason to talk to everyone). One comparison between the countries that made me laugh was that “salva vida” (life saver) is the brand name for purified water in Guate, here in Honduras it is beer!
For some strange reason on arriving in Santa Rosa I checked into a very cheap hotel, and spent the first twenty minutes in my room swatting mosquitos. At first I was grossed out by the grim yellow walls with marks all over them, then I was annoyed because I kept mistaking the little black marks for mossies, finally I had added several smeared insects to the walls, including a big splodge of blood, which means either one of them got me, or I have someone elses blood on the swatter (my note book). Nice. I wonder if they will ever clean up.
After dinner in an empty restaurant I start to wonder if I will see any other tourists in Honduras.
 
Saturday 24th September
 
After sampling my first typical Honduran breakfast; tortillas, beans, egg, cheese, cream, and fried bananas I made the mistake only a traveller can. I was sure it was Friday and I went to visit the cigar factory, which was closed, obviously, because it’s the weekend. Ooops. So I spent some time “working” at the nearby bus station, which is crowded, noisy, and not a place people normally hang around very long. After wandering around for nearly half an hour the friendly bus boys had answered most of my questions, but rather than just shouting comments as I walked by the fifth time, some of them were actually trying to grab me. They were just being (over) friendly, but it was clearly time to leave.
Back in Santa Rosa I met some helpful people, a guy called Max Elvir who got very excited about me wanting to go hiking. We were chatting for nearly two hours and he told me about every little village, who ran the comedor, whether they had electricity etc. He also drew me a map and told me I would be fine to go off on my own. I wasn’t sure about the “on your own” bit, I was kind of hoping for a guided tour, but I didn’t have any other plans for the next day.
I also found and American ex-pat, who told me everything I needed to know for the book. I could have saved myself a lot of walking if I’d just come to his restaurant first, but I wouldn’t have had nearly so much Spanish practice.
The only person that tried to make friends with me at dinner was a small boy. He was very sweet, but I was a bit disturbed by his dancing. His pelvic movements combined with an “I’m so sexy” facial expression were the kind of moves you might expect to see in “X-tassi’s” the local disco, not from a seven year old.
 
 
Sunday 25th September  
On Sunday morning I woke up and thought, “yes, why not. I’ll do it.” I packed as light as humanly possible, which, to my shame, involved purchasing a bum bag, and headed off into the Western Highland villages to hike, experience life without other tourists, and practice my Spanish with the locals I had been told were so friendly.
I was still slightly unsure about the safety of going alone (as a 28 year old female you can imagine my worries), but I had been assured by the local tour guide that it was a great idea. When I met him the day before, he enthusiastically shared his knowledge of the area and drew me a map which consisted of the names of the villages and straight lines connecting them all together. Apparently there are paths everywhere then.
My first step was getting to Belen Gualcho, which, according to the guide book has a church, a Sunday market and a hotel. Arriving at midday after a couple of bus rides I saw that  yes, there was indeed a church with three domes. And the hotel was a pleasant surprise; no hot water obviously, but a private bathroom and a balcony looking across the tiled roofs and off into the hills. The market on the other hand was nowhere to be seen. My enquiries with several locals revealed the reason for this; it is perfectly normal here to get up as early as 4am, and the whole market is done and dusted by 10am.
This town is a metropolis compared to where I’m heading; it has no less than 4 restaurants. The lady at the one on the square served a typical lunch – tortillas, beans, cheese, eggs, cream, and a cup of coffee. I don’t drink coffee, (partly because of the caffeine, mainly because of the taste), but here my options are pretty limited. Coffee or nothing.
For an afternoon stroll I head up the hill. Apparently, (according to the trusty book) there is a great view of the church from one of the schools. The view evades me, but as I leave town on a muddy path I do some great bird watching. I love the way that when you call it “bird watching” it suddenly becomes a hobby, rather than just sitting looking into the tress. I’m not a very good birder as I can’t name a single one, but I enjoy myself. There are at least three different species, bright red, bright yellow, and bright blue. But unbearable stomach cramps soon stop play and I’m not thinking too kindly about my typical lunch as I get caught short in the woods. Luckily no one comes along the path, and my trusty bum bag provides toilet paper. This kind of wilderness action is a bit much for me and I head back towards the safety of my hotel room.
On the way I see open gates that look suspiciously like a school, I’m not sure whether I’m allowed in, but hey, as a friendly tourist, why not? Two students in their blue and white uniforms are standing outside so I start my usual friendly banter then ask them if there’s a good view from here. They look at me like I’m completely mad and try their hardest to understand why a gringo has just wandered into school. A teacher emerges from a classroom , I give him the standard tourist greeting “Buenas tardes!” then realise that he is in the middle of a lesson and a whole classroom of his students are now also looking at me wondering what the hell I’m playing at. Determined as I am to see the view I head round the back of the building, where I find the toilets, and the teacher from two seconds ago taking a piss with the door open. Oops.
If there was a view, maybe I could justify this snooping, but the trees have obviously grown since the trusty book was written, and you can’t see a thing. By now the situation is just silly and I top off my complete disruption of their day by accidentally walking within arms reach of another classroom window. In the whole town there are rarely tourists and these teenagers are in class on a Sunday afternoon because they work all week. They are looking towards the board, but are distracted by something moving past the window. Imagine their surprise as they see some random foreigner wearing a bum bag and a sun visor, laughing out loud to herself, walking along the narrow gap between the building and the rubbish bins. I freeze as I realise the whole class of 20 is looking at me. There is no way that I can hope to explain why I am there, so I leave confidently and quickly, around to the front and across the courtyard, hoping not to draw further attention to myself, but knowing full well that every eye is looking in confusion at the back of my sky blue waterproof jacket. Hooray for silly missions! I think it must have made class more interesting.
Without appreciating the luxury of options I chose Raquel’s comedor for dinner. After a friendly chat I had learnt the names of all the tourists Raquel has ever met, and that there would be many people walking up to the village of La Mohaga the next morning. There are women in this village that make crazy fruit wine and it is up a massive hill. What great reasons to go!
Back at the hotel I meet a local teacher who is also going to La Mohaga tomorrow for work, but she has to leave at 5:30am to arrive in time. She makes the trek, two hours each way, every day, because she would rather live down here, where she can enjoy electricity and a warmer temperature. I thank her for offering to show me the way, but 5:30 am??? I don’t think so.
 
                                                                                                                        
Monday 26th September
 
I managed a pretty early start (7:15am) thanks mainly to the poor plumbing at the hotel. It’s all very well having your own private bathroom, but when the smell of your latest bought of diarrhoea refuses to go away, you would rather be very far away from it.
Minutes after starting my hike to La MohagaI hooked up with Gloria, another teacher who was going the same way. She was expecting a lift at any point in order to arrive on time, but she walked with me anyway and we had great conversations. As usual for the people I meet on this trip her life is fairly tough. Her boyfriend recently moved to the states to find work and she hasn’t seen him for five months. Their child lives with mother during the week while Gloria treks back and forth to school every day. We take a break from the steep uphill trudge, and I am touched by her kindness when she insists on buying me a juice.
After nearly an hour of uphill the conversation has slowed right down, and just in the nick of time her lift shows up. I am left sweating and happy to continue at my own pace. Much as I enjoyed chatting to Gloria, it felt slightly wrong that my holiday hike was accompanying someone on their way to work.
Soon afterwards the road levelled out. I was relieved, but at the same time convinced I had taken a wrong turn. I was kicking myself for not stopping to chat with the last man who passed by on his horse, especially since if I had to retrace my steps on this section it would be an uphill struggle.
As usual, however, I soon see some other traffic. A campesino with a machete and a white hat is walking towards me. I am aware of how this might be construed as a slightly dodgy situation: girl on her own, only other person is a guy with an enormous weapon, but in these parts it would be unnerving to see a man without a machete, and my only reaction is relief at being able to check the way, and it’s not too far at all.
Now I thought everyone had been friendly so far, but the women in La Mohaga were exceptionally kind.
Pedro in the pulperia (shop) sold me a coke. He should have been at school, but his teacher didn’t make the two and a half hour hike in time, so class was cancelled. He told me, as did the radio, that the time was 9am. Pretty good going, I thought to myself.
I announced my arrival in the village by asking everyone where I could find wine. An older lady escorted me to a house where I was invited in to sit down. The bare concrete room had some shelves with soap and batteries for sale, and a few plastic stools for us to sit on. I had the usual conversation about my random wanderings and realised I was faced with the choice of returning to Belen and my smelly hotel room, or continuing to San Sebastian, which seemed like a very long way. Carmen (the wine lady), after meeting me for five minutes, offered to let me sleep on her kitchen floor so I could spend more time in the village and get to know the area better. I was stunned by her kindness, and made my first mistake of the day; I made an assumption that if people here would let me stay in their houses, then surely the same kindness will be offered in the other villages.
I decided to try and make it to Hojalaca, half way to San Sebastian. I wanted to turn down the kitchen floor offer politely and thought that if I asked the time, it would add weight to my argument that it was a little early in the day to be thinking about sleeping. Imagine my surprise when she told me it was 10am. How can there be an hour time difference 200m down the road? I was now entirely confused about when it was going to get dark, but I knew Hojalaca was my goal.
I found Walter who was going half way there and could show me the road. He walked quickly down and up across the valleys, I was struggling to keep up and hold conversation at the same time, but I learnt that he wants to go to the USA to work. After passing his house I was relieved to be on my own and going at my own pace again. I could finally stop to get the stones out of my shoes and nurse a small blister.
Walking alone in the midday heat I could really appreciate how perfect these hills are for hiking; the altitude stops it being too hot, but is not so great that you feel breathless, the rivers, maize fields, and far off cliffs, make for a beautiful backdrop, and with butterflies and birds to spot there is never a dull moment.
After a couple more hours however my euphoria was wearing off a bit. A few people had told me I was close by Hojalaca and that I would surely be able to stay there, and I was really really hopeful about that. My legs were feeling the five hours walking behind me, the blister was giving me jip, and there were ominous black clouds rolling in. By the time I arrived I was pretty much ready to collapse. The first house I got to I had the usual friendly chat, but I realised the problem I had; I really wanted to be offered somewhere to stay without having to ask directly, I knew my best tactic was to make friends first, but I was so tired I couldn’t manage to hold it in.
The first family assured me there would be somewhere down the hill. The second family told me to go to the pulperia. But when I got there I was still hearing the same answer “yes, I am sure you can stay at someone’s house”, and nobody had actually said “yes, my house”. I tried not to panic too much and purchased a scary looking orange drink (I couldn’t see any water in the shop). As I was sitting in what looked like a bus shelter drinking it I was surrounded by about twelve gawping children. It turned out they were all cousins (this village really is small) and I wished I had some games to entertain them while we sheltered from the storm coming in. The best I could manage was a few ritz biscuits, which went down surprisingly well.
The children told me their village has a school, and a church, and a community building, as well as the shop - I was clearly in the central hub. I got to thinking about the last time I had been in a place as remote as this; there are no passable roads, and all the shop supplies are brought in on horseback. It had certainly been a while.
By the last drops of fizzy orange I was feeling better and the rain had passed. I asked the all important question, “How long does it take to walk to San Sebastian from here?” and the answer was a reasonable two hours. Since I didn’t have anywhere to stay I worked two more hours walking into the mental picture of my day, and it seemed ok. The sky was still a bit grey, and I only had between three and four hours of daylight left, but I didn’t have a wide range of options.
Two of the girls showed me twenty minutes out of town to the beginning of the shortest path and I set off again. Uphill. Now my knowledgeable tour guide back in the city had described the short cut to me, and I was intrigued by the wooden gate that he had told me was closed in winter. I have clearly watched too many Lord of the Rings films because I imagined something like the entrance to the mines of Mordor, something enormous and wood panelled, impassable when locked. In fact it was a normal, person sized gate made of several planks of wood, but at least it told me I was on the right track.
The uphillness of it all was really starting to get to me. I hadn’t seen any people since the beginning of the path, and for the first time I allowed myself a little bit of fretting about being completely on my own in the middle of nowhere, what if I have a heart attack? What if someone jumps out of the bushes and attacks me with a machete? Or, more realistically, what happens if I made the wrong turn after the river and I get lost?
When I see a house I am really looking forward to the friendly conversation, but after all this uphill, my face not looking good. I go past the smoking chimney and the chickens to the back garden where I find a mother and small son. As well as surprised to see this foreigner with a sun visor and a sky blue waterproof coat, she looks genuinely worried about me. And when I hear from her that I still have a further two hours I am at a bit of a low point, but at least I am on the right path. She offers me a drink, but the reason I am so red in the face is that I am pushing on to ensure that I arrive before dark, so I decline and keep going up.
I finally get to the top and meet a campesino who gives me tangerines and shows me a side path to avoid the mud. He also has a laugh at the state of me, and is the first person today to point out that I have a red mark right the way across my forehead from my sun visor. Great, I’ve met all these people today with a line across my head.
There are some houses around now - better, and I can see the church in San Sebastian - excellent, but it is at the top of the next hill - aaaaaaah. Several more people pass me on the path and give me encouraging, but varying, time scales, “it’s fifteen minutes from here”, “it’s only half an hour from here”.
When I cross the river and look back across the valley I know that pressing on was the right choice. It is a spectacular view to the forested hills, across meadows and the river. The sun has come out and I’m feeling warm and wonderfully tired. I eat the green tangerines whilst wondering what might be on my hands, and they taste surprisingly good as I am lying back against the rocks.
After a very long break I find some uplifting music to help me the last twenty minutes up to town. In total I have been walking for nearly eight hours when a hero with a horse saves me. I don’t usually go anywhere near large animals, but when he offers me a ride for the last stretch I can’t refuse. And my arrival in town is made all the more amusing. Picture the scene in the town square, groups of men in their white hats are sitting on the walls, children are playing football in the road, and then an absolutely knackered gringo appears being led through town on a large white horse and looking extremely uncomfortable about it. I really had no idea how I was going to get down again, but my chauffer stopped us next to a high curb. I was so grateful for the lift I would have given him a load of money, but he wouldn’t take any during our slightly awkward “tip’ moment.
The hospedaje has to be the most basic accommodation ever seen - a musty camp bed in a room with no windows. I was shocked to see a light switch (and less surprised when it didn’t work), but relished my cold outdoor shower in a breeze block cubicle with no door.
I managed to stay awake long enough to eat some tortillas, beans, egg and dodgy meat in a very basic comedor, and if I remember rightly even struggled through a conversation about the weather with my host Alicia. But, in this dark town where electricity is so new no one knows how to use it, I am asleep before 8pm.

www.gurneysjourneys.com

Thursday 15th September
I was planning on getting drunk and shouting viva in the square whilst wearing an enormous sombrero, but dinner with Trina became a lengthy civilized affair and we managed to miss “el grito”. After a bottle of wine though I did succeed in getting slightly drunk, and danced around to manu chau in the hippie dreadlock bar.
 
Friday 16th September
 
Off to another Zapatista meeting, this time with Trina. We parked the car near the garage and instead of driving took an interesting truck ride down the horrible road. We were standing amongst boxes and petrol cans with various locals; some entrepreneurial teenagers were on their way to sell frisbees and longlife milk and blankets to people in a far away village, and the men in the truck were drunk (this was at midday). After they filled up the petrol cans, and spilled a fair bit, one of them was sleeping with his head resting on the top of a can, and you could see the wet patch where the spilt petrol was gradually soaking into his t-shirt. After nearly three hours of getting dust in my hair and ears we arrived. This meeting is really resembling a festival, the entrepreneurs say “have fun at your party” and a drunk guy gets out of the front (NOT the driver) and staggers into a ditch before trying to charge a random passerby for the truck ride.

We arrive and discover that we are not late. Excellent. Kick-off is 8pm. This meeting is the “plenary” meeting and in journalist style I’m very interested to hear what people are expecting to happen. The general consensus seems to be that the type of organization and action they need for the “sexta” will be agreed on.

At 8pm several of the commandantes speak, including Ramona, which surprised me because the book I just read said she was dead. There is some serious media hype going on, and the tall cameras at the front are being shouted at by those of us that just want to sit and watch.
Then I witness something you would only see at this type of lefty meeting; the people around me write a petition asking for the lowering of the cameras!!! I sign it, as do about 20 other people, but I am very curious to see if anything comes of this little piece of lefty “action”. And does it? does it fuck!!!! Which leaves me wondering about the whole movement. I love the idea, I want these people to get organized. As well as continuing grass roots projects, maybe they will gather enough support to pull together enormous protests that may actually change a political decision (they have to be really big.. like the protests supporting Lopez Obrador ). But, as they say, it will take a long time and I really will have to see it to believe it. Everyone is prepared to wait, but I hope they don’t get bored.
I got a bit bored, or was it sleepy?, listening to the male commandantes speak. My Spanish just ain’t that good. The most important bit was Marcos announcing the dates for his countrywide tour next year. He will finish 10 days before the national elections. That looks stangely like an election campaign for someone who’s not interested in being a politician.
After the meeting Marcos (as usual) told us all to go and dance. And we did. To ranchero music. But , dare I say it, I miss the booze on occasions like this. (The Zapatista communities are “dry” and after seeing the guys on the truck today, you can see that is a really good idea. Alcohol is used in such a different way in the villages, men get drunk, and nobody goes out for a couple).
 
 
Saturday 17th September
 
“Oh my goooooooood!!!” No I didn’t greet him like that, but I was extremely surprised to see someone I knew here - Mateo Crossa, a mega fresa (posh) from Greengates school. A guy from the most expensive school in mexico has come to the jungle, to mingle with poor people, and listen and learn about leftist organizations. He came because he is working for a library in Xochimilco which runs programs to help indigenous people who have moved to the city. Excellent!!
So the meeting starts with some hands up voting, it’s chaotic, and with about 250 people voting, the counting of the hands takes some time. But this is only to decide the program of the day. When we get to proposals about who will be part of the campaign and the tasks they should be getting on with, there is no voting. In fact nothing is to be decided this weekend because that would exclude absentees from the process. Once again it is a discussion, and although people are supposed to be putting forward concrete proposals about specific points there is still a lot of waffle. One of the items on the agenda is to discuss the structure of the organization. Some people say vertical, some people say horizontal. I hope these people are aware that a completely horizontal organization cannot get anything done, there are always going to be some people who disagree. And I don’t know why people don’t just admit what they really want…let Marcos be boss! He has spent 18 years building the trust of the indigenous people, everyone thinks he’s a good guy, surely he’s the man for the job. But that would be too easy (and the few people that disagreed would make a lot of noise, and some people would disagree just to get to the microphone again).
So after a morning of trying to concentrate, I head over to the river to bathe a little, and am very surprised to find MY towel hanging in a bush. Some bastard has nicked it, used it, and left it in a tree. It is definitely mine because it’s from ikea and has a big brown stain on it (sand, I’ll have you know). I thought the people here were supposed to be nice friendly folk. How cheeky to rob my towel. (But on the bright side it is kind of handy since I had forgotten to go and get it myself.)
Later after more concentration, and trying to be a journalist with my rampant note taking, I have a list of the names of people who have spoken, but very little understanding of what each person says. The best source of information for me are the other spectators I get chatting to, the guys from Tepoztlan (an arty town near Mexico city) tell me it was autonomous from 1996 to 1999, and they want it back that way. (I never knew that! And I’ve been there). The Indigenous woman still thinks the Zapatistas are great even though they’ve changed to include everyone (they are not just about indigenous rights anymore). Several other people help with translating, but I’m disappointed really. I thought something would be decided at the meeting but it still seems like a fair bit of waffling and everything is going to be decided later on.
 
The love interest
 
Trina is blond, fair skinned and rather sophisticated. She always gets a lot of attention from men, but I kind of expected the clientele here to be a bit less drooling and a bit more honest. She was chatting to a guy at the café, I noticed after a few minutes he was asking for her email, she said no, and tried to explain why (“we don’t know each other” being the glaring reason). He was persistent and kept talking to her another five minutes before giving up. When I spoke to Trina about it after, she told me this guy had actually said “I love you” before he left. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH. How f ing ridiculous are these men?
I’ve started to wonder if it is because “I love you” in Spanish is “te quiero”, which literally means “I want you”- slightly different to being in love that.
 
The t-shirts
 
My other game at the meeting was looking at what I assume to be carefully selected t-shirts for the occasion. There’s a lack of Marcos t-shirts, (although I see one slightly overweight US looking woman with a bum bag, pink cap, pink trousers, a camera round her neck and a “Zapatour” t-shirt with a list of the “tour dates” on the back – from when they went to Mexico city in 2001) and a few of che. But here are a sample:
 
“fight the power”
“bajo un gobierno que encarcela injustamente, el verdadero sitio para hombre justo es la cárcel” Ricardo flores magon
pacifico (beer)
bbc world service
“chuzos de punta”
cruz azul (mex city football team)
“theatres against war”
“SCCA” and a ghandi quote
“I don’t expect to be patient until there is housing now for all”
 
 
Sunday 18th September
 
This meeting really is looking like a festival. There are hippies hanging around their tents doing capoeira and various circus tricks. The little local boys watching are stunned, they’ve never seen anything quite like this before. Mud is also adding to the festival atmosphere. There have been several massive rainstorms, and although there is plenty of shelter, the ground outside is decidedly soggy.

The meeting continues until 1pm ish, and many more people than last time stick it out to the end. We listen to some more people suggesting important tasks to undertake, but I’m still struggling to pick out the main points of each speech. By the last vote (the only thing people are voting for now is, at the end of each section, whether they are in agreement that the proposals should be up for further discussion in upcoming meetings) Marcos almost gets a no majority – are people a little frustrated?- but deals with it well by asking the question again in a different tone of voice. He is definitely in charge here. After his closing speech it is all over.
I have been offered a lift by some friends of Martin, which is very kind, but unappealing when I discover they are packing five people and luggage into a bocho (vw beetle). I opt for another truck journey instead and go to retrieve my bag from their car. By the time I get there they have managed to reverse into some local guys garden, get stuck in the mud, and are creating plumes of smoke as they are wheel spinning on planks of wood they have put under the car to try and get out. There’s a crowd of men offering advice, but I can’t see them getting back up the bank onto the gravel very easily. Why?? Why did he reverse down onto the muddy ground? They only had to back up a little way down the road and they could have turned round sensibly. I am wondering what the owner of the house is going to think when he gets back and finds a bocho in his vegetable patch, “bloody city folk”.
Anyway I have to interrupt the manly discussions of what to do next to ask for my bag, but to top off their car problems the boot won’t open. They give me a phone number and tell me I can pick it up the next day. I wonder if I should stay and help a while, but I don’t have any suggestions even if I thought for one second someone would listen to a girl.
The truck journey turns out to be fun (the hippies are there with a guitar),but a little frustrating (we run out of petrol). Unfortunately our driver was a bit of a bastard on the way (driving past stuck people, and annoying other trucks) so when we are sitting by the side of the road everyone pretty much just laughs as they drive past. After several people have abandoned the hippie train for other vehicles we get going again.
I pick up the car and rant at a guy called Mitch who gets a lift home with me. He wants to be a writer too, and he knows a lot more than me.
 

Monday 19th September
 
Cleared up some mud. Tried to be a journalist. I’m still living in the house of my lovely friend Martin, and he is still in the states.
 
Tuesday 20th September
 
I really must leave the house and go to Guatemala (I think I’ve had this problem before). I’ve downloaded a shedload of music though, and written an article which I will do nothing with.
 
Wednesday 21st September
 
I left!! A 10 hour minibus ride and I’m in the ever so scary Guatemala city. I wanted to stay in Zone 1, but everyone kept ranting about how dangerous it is.. (i´m like, dude.. i´ve lived in DF two years). So when a passenger got dropped at a hotel in a nicer neighbourhood they practically forced me to go there too. It was more expensive than i wanted and there was a cockroach in the bathroom. Then i wanted to eat but it was really raining and the woman was unhelpful about getting me a taxi and they told me I could get fried chicken delivered. I didn´t want fried chicken and I was tired and hungry and slightly pre menstrual so I watched the rain and was temporarily reduced to tears. In the end I got my coat and walked past the prostitutes on the corner to the nearest restaurant, a bloody expensive but bloody nice Chinese, where they looked at me strangely because I was alone.

www.gurneysjourneys.com

Thursday 1^st September

I arrived in Guatemala today, and got to Xela the second city at about 8pm. (Those of you who are clever will notice there’s a gap, it doesn’t take a day to get down the road to Guate. What actually happened was that yesterday some bastard nicked my wallet, thus delaying my departure AGAIN..but the point is I finally got here).

Wow, Guate makes Chiapas look like a really civilized place. I traveled to the border in 2 and a half hours in new micro-vans. Across the border I got on a shitty bus with three people to every two spaces. The exhaust was growling every time he put his foot down as we climbed back up into the mountains. Everyone said the buses in Guate were an experience, yeah, a really BAD experience. Especially since I have a hangover (during my extra night in San C I met my new editor and he said ..i quote..”you can write”. Now there’s a reason to celebrate. He also said I was cute. Hmmm, I hope he didn’t have ulterior motives when he was being nice about my article).

Anyway, the bus journey is crazy. The driver absolutely hoons it along the winding road. Then if there are any people waiting at the roadside he drives right past them because he can’t stop in time. I think more time is actually wasted waiting for them to run to catch up than is gained by driving ridiculously fast.

I would also advise travellers to sit on the drivers side of the bus. This way you will avoid having to watch the bus guy risking his life as he clambers up on top of the bus while we are moving at forty miles an hour. I saw something hit him on the head one time - a branch? Or maybe a dangling electrical wire - and the guy had a laugh about it with the driver! Then he climbed on up and just made it before two trees were close enough to take him out. I really don’t want to see this guy flung onto the tarmac. It would ruin my already horrible, uncomfortable day.

In total it took 8 hours and 2 collectivos, 2 buses and 2 taxis to get to Xela. But looking on the brightside it only cost $13 US.

Friday 2^nd September

On my way to the shower this morning I passed by the travel agent who lives here and booked a trip to climb a volcano tomorrow. Nice. Then I went to some cold miserable hot springs. The guide book said “sublime” and I was really excited. But after a pick-up ride up the hill to get there the fog had rolled in and you could barely see to metres away, let alone the view.  I forced myself to sit in the tepid water a while as I figured it was good for me, then got changed on a freezing concrete floor and sneezed all the way back to relative civilisation. I sat in a restaurant with a view over the whole village, which would be great if the village wasn’t a mish mash of grey concrete buildings, mud roads and small fields. It is still raining and Guate is not great. Plus it takes me two hours to get home on crowded buses (it’s only 10km).

Saturday 3^rd September

I’m impressed with how well I wake up at 4:30am to head on yet more crowded buses out to the bottom of Tajumulco volcano- the highest in central America, but a fairly pathetic 4220m  (been up higher). At the final count there are 32 people and 3 guides in our group. This doesn’t please me, it takes 20 mins to get on the bus, they throw our packs on top one by one, and we squish our way onto an already half full bus. When we sit down to breakfast we take over the whole comedor and I’m already starting to get annoyed about the inane conversations people are having (oooh, I like your hair, where have you been then?, altitude can kill you know) and there is absolutely no opportunity to practice Spanish on this trip – all 3 guides are from the USA.

The walking is bloody hard. We climb 1000m to our camp spot (at 4000m) carrying 15+ kg packs and the going is not slow.

I love the word “gung-ho” and luckily the gung-ho people in our group get to the top sooooooo quickly they have put most of the tents up before we arrive. Not before overtaking me with the predictable condescending comment “you just pacing yourself are you?”

I am in a tent with all the lone travelers, 5 in a 4 man tent. I already hate the girl next to me – she’s even more obviously selfish than me – and hasn’t said a single thing yet apart from statements of her immense knowledge of all things outdoor, and complaints about things going wrong for her. On my left is the most gung-ho of all. He has carried 3 kgs of camera equipment with him, including a foot long zoom lens. But he just goes round snapping away, reaching over people holding the camera with one hand at a funny angle. If those pictures come out it just proves my theory that with expensive enough equipment anyone can be a photographer. He took pictures of the porridge.

After standing around in the cold in a stupid black poncho waiting for more pasta to cook we went to bed at 7pm, and I got to sleep about midnight. Not until after a girl came to join us from her flooded tent and slept where our feet should go. At this point we are 6 in a 4 man tent in the rain. The guys on either end are completely wet, and I am trying to sleep with my knees up. I’m close to storming out and screaming, but it’s raining and I don’t want to go outside.

Sunday 4^th September

Another 4am start takes us to the summit, just about in time for sunrise, but with 30 of us (2 didn’t make it after last night) the traffic is ridiculous. The view at the top is stunning, you can see Mexico, 2 live volcanoes and apparently the ocean but I’m not sure about that.

After about 300 photos from the t#@t who slept next to me we head back down. The walk down is fantastic, I escape the traffic a bit, free myself of the ridiculous poncho and can look around at the meadows dotted with trees and flowers, and see the hills and valleys below us. After a precious few moments sitting alone I know I have to return to the crowd if I want any breakfast.

It takes a phenomenal amount of time to eat and break camp. On the way down we stop in the sun a couple of times, mmm soaking up the warmth of the sun…a decent rest. The travel conversations have moved on to “where have you been in Asia?” and I prefer the boyish ramblings of the guides, who are trying to start a fire with a tiny magnifying glass.

After more buses and lunch and handing the equipment back it’s over and I can have a hot shower and a long sleep.   

Monday 5^th September

I haven’t tried to move yet but I have a feeling it’s going to hurt.                               

No. Moving around is painful and I’m still very tired. After a morning of indecision and trying to get things done (it’s impossible to send a fax, or buy shampoo, hairbands and a razor in the same shop – in the developed world it’s called a pharmacy – not that difficult surely) I find a shuttleto take me to the lake. Hooray..i couldn’t face getting on another chicken bus.

By nightfall I have found a gorgeous lakeside room with a hammock out front. This town (San Pedro) has to be the friendliest place anywhere. All the locals as well as the tourists say hello. When I was strolling around trying to figure out which path went back to the main street (there aren’t very many roads here) I first got invited to join in a young girls game with her sister, then 2 seconds later a slightly older girl invited me to her grandma’s party. I wanted to tell someone these tales of friendliness so I stopped into the next bar. He listened to my story then introduced me to everyone in the place!

Tuesday 6^th September

This was the view from my hammock and I looked at it most of the day. A quick swim, reading and eating is all I did. Great.

I had dinner with my Israeli neighbours and braved the topic of politics with an English girl who has moved to Israel. It sounds like a pretty divided place, with the ultra-orthodox Jews living in their own communities and shutting everything down on Saturdays. They are resented by the people at this table because they don’t have to do military service, and instead spend one year less than everyone else doing “national” service, (like community service). Then there’s the Israeli Arabs who also live in their own communities and are also resented. This group because they have cousins in Palestine and have been blamed for helping to bring bombs in. These guys do the crappy jobs. The people you see traveling (in their hoards!!!) are the Hebrew speaking Jewish who have just finished military service. According to my neighbours, in Palestinian schools kids are not even taught that Israel exists, (how do they know where to take the bombs then?!). It seems to me that, as always, education is so important in this delicate situation. I stumped them all by asking what type of passports Palestinians had, and – predictably- one of the macho guys commented in Hebrew that Palestinians don’t have passports because they are all too poor ha ha ha.

And so far I’m proved right about them being tight….none of the people I’m with tip. They just don’t. Not even in this ridiculously cheap country where the people really could use the money – cultural differences eh.

Wednesday 7^th September                                                                      

I think I ate a bad egg. I had stomach pains.. but not the normal cramps, more like aching with a bit of nausea thrown in. I really did stay in the hammock all day today, and was particularly anti social.

I’m in San Pedro, it’s a strange little town. There are tons of Spanish schools, but I don’t believe anyone actually wants to learn Spanish as all the menus and people working in the restaurants speak English. I was supposed to be practicing loads this week, but it’s actually easier to practice in Mexico.

Thursday 8^th September

A hellish day getting back to San Cristóbal. 6 hours on chicken buses, including being squashed by someone’s bag of rotting fish (smelt like it), then mini-vans back in Mexico. 10 hours it took me, and I stank of fish for most of it.

So I have lovely memories of Guatemala. Not.

Friday 9^th September

Ahhhh, Mexico, such a lovely country. I spent the day sitting in the garden of the hostel and talking to various people about going to this week’s Zapatista meeting, without really believing any of them would go. Then to my pleasant surprise my friend Martin says “why not?” and provides transport and a tent. By the time all this is decided it’s too late to leave today so we set our alarms for a 6am departure.

Saturday 10^th September

My stomach is still way dodgy so the 6am departure becomes more like midday. On the way there I am in serious pain, Martin thinks it’s his driving scaring me, but no, I am just sweating because of  my painful stomach. But after half an hour of pain, whatever it was is gone and I am better than I have been for days. Hooray, I can enjoy the meeting. Well, enjoy is putting it a bit strongly, it’s more like an intellectual exercise with all the speeches in Spanish. It’s astoundingly similar to the last meeting, the same kind of people saying the same kind of things. There’s a group of campesinos that do a great show though, they walk to the front shouting, (“Zapata vive!” response: “La lucha sigue!”), then sing some songs whilst holding their machetes high in the air and clanking them together.

                                                you can just about see machetes

Marcos is a lot more accessible this time (they’re outside so you can sneak up behind him) and he’s actually autographing books and t-shirts while people are queuing up behind him! He’s supposed to be listening to the speakers.

The people in the community are really friendly. Our friend Cedric had nowhere to sleep so we went looking for a hammock space. In one barn I was suggesting using the emptier half of the room, when I realized it was someones house! And they had already let about 12 people come to stay. The next barn we peeked in was also someones house, but they let cedric stay anyway!!! They put the hammock up for him above a huge pile of corn kernels and in the bed in the corner 2 of the children were asleep. So kind!!! Then when cedric went back covered in mud at about 1am he accidently woke up the baby, now the whole family of 5 had gone to sleep…in one double bed, and to avoid any further disruption cedric just slept in his muddy clothes all night!

Sunday 11^th September

We truly are part-timers at this weekend’s meeting; we leave early, at 1pm to go to some Mayan ruins in Ocosingo on the way home. Toniná they are called and it’s a great site, built all the way up the side of a hill you can climb 80m’s up the steps of the different buildings. Bloody hot though. This is the first touristy thing I have done in Chiapas for weeks!!

Martin is such a star he’s letting me stay at his house…with great facilities including high-speed internet, playstation2, sky -full package- and kittens!!!!

Monday 12^th September

Hanging at the house, some serious internet action. It feels kind of weird going into town in the evening and seeing tourists everywhere, San Cristóbal is such a different place for me now - compared to when I first arrived. I’m practically a local.

Tuesday 13^th September

Martin has gone to the states…but I’m still in the house.  After a brief stint in town I return to the computer.

Wednesday 14^th September

Well more of the same innit, you think this website writes itself?

The most exciting point of my day was introducing the kittens to the dog. He’s behind a fence so it’s relatively safe, but I could feel their little hearts beating faster and faster as I carried them closer. Then they tried to make themselves look big by putting their fur on end…ha ha, they are only the size of my hand and they are trying to make themselves look big.

They are Mexican kittens, they eat tortillas.

www.gurneysjourneys.com

Thursday 25^th August                                                                                 

The adventures in the jungle began today. I am going to a Zapatista meeting about the sixth declaration from the Lacandon jungle. I have no idea what to expect, but I am fairly sure Marcos will be there. Coooel.

I left with the Austrian girl, Eva. She had talked me into driving her out into the middle of nowhere, to another Zapatista caracol, because she needed to get a permiso from them to stay in a nearby village. It just so happened that the town where the meeting was being held was on the way to the caracol, so I was kind of happy to check out where we would be the next day. I foolishly underestimated how long the journey would take to the caracol. We set off and were soon on a dirt road, with holes and puddles. We were still on the dirt road an hour and a half later and had not reached the meeting place, let alone the caracol I was getting pretty worried now, the plan was to go back into town to spend the night, and at 5pm  we hadn’t arrived and were clearly not going to make it back before dark. We started asking people how far it was to the meeting place, they kept saying an hour!!! I was sure it could only be 7km at the most though, so we kept on and eventually people started telling us we were nearly there. At 5:30 we arrived at the meeting place, and got out of the car to see what was going on, it all looked very cool, a big Mexican style marquee was being set up at the bottom of a field behind the village (a Mexican marquee is a large tarpaulin spread over some trees they just hacked down in the jungle with a machete).

From this village they told us it was 45 mins to an hour to the caracol. Bugger. But then someone else told us it was half an hour. Better. It was quite clear that we were not going to make it back into town, so I quickly got myself used to the idea of driving to caracol and staying there, (the Zapatistas are always very accommodating when people go to visit.)

Then I had a real test, the rain started coming down, hard..we are in the jungle remember. I was a bit scared to say the least, driving on these crappy roads with water running down them and puddles- who knows how deep- everywhere. I only hit the bottom of my car three times. And was happy when we arrived. We weren’t really in the mood to go through the interview, “show us your passports”, “why are you here?” but obviously we didn’t have much choice. At the end of the meeting they hadn’t said anything about staying with them and I was getting worried they were going to expect us to drive back in the dark, but no, it was fine. We asked them, and they kept their stern faces and said yes of course. They showed us to a barn and luckily we both had hammocks. We spent the evening trudging around in the mud between the café (serving only beans and tortillas), the toilets (very very bad), and our barn.

In this caracol they are not wearing ski masks… I guess they do that in Oventic because there are loads of tourists, but the buildings have murals and the buildings have similar functions, the “junta de buen gobierno”, “the meeting of good government” and the advice centres.

In the night there was a thunder storm on top of us. It was a bizarre experience in the pitch dark, you saw the flash and seconds later the thunder was cracking and the ground was shaking. It was all over fairly quickly and we went back to sleep as best as we could.

Friday 26^th August

After more beans and tortillas for breakfast we drove back down the scary road, which wasn’t nearly as scary in dry weather, and tried to drive into the village for the meeting. They stopped us at the entrance to check us in and I was the very first person to write my name in the book. But arriving early didn’t help us that much as we just had to sit and wait  outside for two hours. Then when we did finally get in we left our stuff in the car and wandered down to check out the sleeping. Slightly better than a barn, we were sleeping in a classroom this time. But without our stuff we had no way of saving ourselves a space, and by the time we returned with our hammocks we had to get very friendly with the Spaniards and squeeze our hammocks in between theirs.

After we have a sleeping spot we assess the situation. There are lots of foreigners-more than I imagined- and I feel like a bit of a social outcast because I shave my armpits. They are mostly Italian, Spanish and French; English people don’t, on the whole, have revolutionary tendencies. The area is pretty festival like, with shops, the main marquee and a muddy path leading down to makeshift toilets (actually better quality than last nights!)

The scenery is stunning. My favorite hills are the ones with a scattering of trees and intense green grass underneath- they look so perfect for walking on.

At sunset, a teenager gets behind the keyboard and starts playing really dodgy Mexican music for everyone. He doesn’t stop until 2am! At which point those of us who are trying to sleep in the next door classroom breath a sigh of relief, only to be subjected to more terrible music from a CD two minutes later. It was a different  atmosphere to a normal party though; no alcohol, and much more intelligent conversation. I met the guy who started the narco news website and a journalist from the New York Times.. pretty good going I thought.

Saturday 27^th August

I missed Marcos arrive!!! What a dufus. I think I was too busy deciding between quesadillas and a pot noodle for breakfast. But luckily the spectacle of the Zapatistas arriving and leaving was repeated several times during the weekend. The masked panel behind the front table consists of 12 comandantes in the front row, half women in indigenous dress, and behind them about 14 armed and uniormed members of the EZLN (National Zapatista Liberation Army) and sub-comandantes….including Marcos with his pipe and walky talky and everything you expect. It’s GREAT to see him. He looks exactly like all the pictures you have ever seen, but in real life he is magnetic, his eyes, oooh, I was swooning, I admit it.

And then I fluffed it a bit; when he started talking I got carried away trying to take photos (which is a complete waste of time when your camera is a cell phone) and after missing the beginning of the speech I couldn’t even get the gist of what he was saying. Doh. But actually even if I was concentrating, my Spanish isn’t good enough.

So the meeting consists of people from various minority groups and NGO’s offering support to the Zapatista’s new declaration with short (or long) talks. Ideally these people would be sharing their practical suggestions for making the world better (stopping prejudice, racism and rampant capitalism- that kind of thing), but the reality is that most people talk in terms of ideals and how things should be (waffling lefties). And they have beautifully planned speeches, which they are too nervous to deliver well, trembling in the presence of Marcos it’s almost as if they are trying to impress him.

The meeting went on until 3 am and they were still only half way through the 150 or so groups that wanted to speak!!! I didn’t listen all that much to be honest, it was hot and crowded. But the whole time the zaps at the front were concentrating and listening- how hot must they be with those masks on??  Wow. The point of the meeting is that they are listening to the people and they make a point of listening to everything people want to say. Towards the end of one speech that dragged onnnnnn, the crowd were getting a bit agitated. After the speech Marcos stood up and basically told them if they were bored listening they should piss off. And he meant it about listening because he was still there at 5pm the next day. Hardcore. Respect to the members of the panel who got through the whole thing without falling asleep.

Anyway my highlights were firstly watching the army walking off into the jungle. The crowd surrounding Marcos as he walks out the back door is massive and includes the Tzoltzil women from the village wearing their best dresses and lipstick for the occasion. Then as they escape the crowd you can see them walking off further and further until they disappear completely into the jungle. It is such a powerful image, I was tingling a bit… off they go, no one knows where, or when they will be back.. (well actually in 2 hours to carry on the meeting, but like I said the image is whats important.)

The other highlight was watching MC Loco rapping at the panel at 2 am. He had the audience standing on benches with their hands in the air, and Marcos loved it too..he applauded for the first time of the day. Then you have to imaging zooming out and looking down on the scene.. this rapper is going for it in the middle of a field surrounded by mist and jungle and he is performing to a panel of mostly indigenous people to whom this type of music is totally foreign. I was pissing myself. Oh and at the time I had just had a conversation with a radical political science student from UNAM (the same uni that churned out Marcos) in which he told me that although this whole show appears to be a social movement, “under the water” they are actually forming an army to take over the country- proper revolution style! Then he asked me if I was prepared to pick up arms and fight with the zaps. He seemed genuinely disappointed when I said probably not.

Sunday 28^th August

The meeting continues- it was only supposed to last one day! But as the day draws on there are less and less people. By the end Marcos doesn’t even give a closing speech, (maybe because everyone is so ready to leave) which is a shame because I was ready to listen to him this time. Man those zaps must be tired, 2 full days of listening. I could never even make it through an hour long uni lecture.

They ended the meeting just in time, before a massive storm. Unfortunately we didn’t get out fast enough and had to walk back to the car getting drenched. We were going to wait it out in our classroom, but I suddenly remembered the task ahead - driving for an hour and a half down a dirt road- and made sure we got out of there as quick as possible. I was driving with soaking wet shoes, hooning it through mud and the small channels of water that were appearing everywhere, hoping to get out before it got too wet. Luckily we were following a taxi ie a normal non 4×4 car. I was thinking “whatever he can get through I can too”. It was actually quite fun, (in the UK, if roads like this existed, you would not see people attempting a road like this in a normal car), up to a point. That point was when I drove through a river. It was not a puddle, it was 20 metres of driving through deep water. I had butterflies in my stomach for that and the rest of the drive…I was expecting worse to come, but luckily there was nothing worse than that bit and when we could see tarmac in front of us I was shouting and waving my hands around, doing a drum roll on the steering wheel, that kind of thing. Pfufffff.

Monday 29^th August

I am genuinely chirpy around the hostel today; the staff don’t know what’s come over me! And I find some girls who want to come to Guatamala with me- great news. We have a planning meeting and they want to go somewhere else on the way, which is fine by me because once they’re in the car I know I will finally get to Guatemala. We arrange to leave at 8am tomorrow. Perfect. But as always when you make early morning plans I have a great night. I run into the English girls from the meeting and have dinner with them. They are students who put me to shame, I spent my time at uni partying and sleeping. They are involved in loads of things; from running political club nights, to managing a fair trade café which offers homework clubs for local school kids, to running the Nottingham Zapatista Solidarity group (which is why they are here). Wow. 

Tuesday 30^th August

Bastards. After dragging myself out of bed for an 8am start the girls come over and say “sorry, our plans have changed we’re not coming. We tried to find you yesterday.” This pisses me off. For about 30 mins then I formulate a new plan; sod everyone else they are too unreliable I’m just going to leave the car, pack a small bag and go on the bus. This also means I can come back for the last Zap meeting. I mean Guatemala is only four hours away and the last meeting is going to be a great time, even more like a festival, so I may as well come back.

So I’m just hanging out, getting things done for the day. But San Crisóbal has changed since the meeting; I recognize people on the street and bump into people in cafes to have intelligent conversation with. Actually my head hurts with all the chatter (half of it in Spanish) and I need a nap. The most interesting information I gained was what the right wingers are led to believe about the Zapatistas. I’m going to be checking a couple of things out. The guy from Mexico city said that Salinas (a very very corrupt ex-president) funded the Zapatistas 1994 armed uprising during his term to distract the world from the fact that he was moving so much of “his” money to Switzerland that it accelerated an economic crisis. Hmm. And also that the government really was helping the poor people of Chiapas with their “solidarity” programme- now that I’m sure is rubbish, the solidarity programme was used to get votes in the 90’s (“we can’t finish the road until after the elections, so you’d better hope we are still in power” – hint hint) and I didn’t even know it was still running.

He also said that one of his friends was a spy for the government and was hanging out with Marcos at this very moment. Do you think I should warn him?

Wednesday 31^st August                                                       

Bloody dormitories. I am sitting here using a head torch to see the keyboard so I don’t disturb my room mates. It is daylight outside and this room is so dark I need a torch. Well guys I really am going to leave for Guatemala today. And I’m going to leave my beloved computer behind for a couple of weeks, booo.

www.gurneysjourneys.com

Wednesday 10th August

I am officially too old and grumpy to cope with dorms any more. Last night was a particularly bad night though, with Mexican Marco sweet talking the English girl on the bed next to me, but failing to get any action (luckily! I really wouldn’t want to hear that), then soon after that (at about 3 am) someone thought it would be a good idea to take several flash photos.
Getting up in the morning I discovered some good things about this hostel, pancakes for the free breakfast, and people around to accompany you on activities. I found 3 other people to come in the car to the villages of Chamula and Zinacantan, where the interesting local customs involve whining at tourists for money, and sitting in a weird church with pine leaves all over the floor. The locals come in and sit next to lots of lit candles, often with a chicken and some fizzy drinks, and wail whilst rocking back and forth. The fizzy drinks are to make them burp, which apparently gets rid of evil spirits, and in a stroke of marketing genius coca-cola seems to be the drink of choice for this ritual.
The problem I had with the church was the really bad glockenspiel version of Christmas carols they were playing, in August!
In the second village we were lucky enough to arrive on a fiesta day. Everyone was wearing beautiful embroidered outfits in deep blues and purples and there were stages for live music and food tents set up. We stopped for barbecued chicken and were glad to see people looking happy and enjoying themselves (less whining), but we were too cold to stick around for very long.

Thursday 11th August

I had an intellectual day today. I visited a Mayan women’s cooperative where they recycle paper and make beautiful cards to sell, then I went to the Na Bolom museum and was inspired by Trudi Blom; an amazing woman who was an activist in Europe against fascism before WW2, got thrown in prison twice before moving to Mexico, where she met women who fought alongside Zapata in the revolution. She became a photographer and then made friends with the most remote Mayan tribes, the Lacandon Indians and spent the rest of her life fighting to preserve their culture. The museum was also her house, and is now a hotel. They still preserve the tradition of sitting down to dinner together; this includes guests at the hotel, any volunteer workers, archeologists or guides who happen to be around, as well as any Lacandon Indians who are at the museum at the time. One time Trudi had the Governor of Chiapas sitting opposite a Lacandonian! Wow, with the class differences in Mexico that rich governor had probably never even looked an Indian in the eye before, and then he is dining with one.
I also read a letter from Marcos in Spanish. I didn’t understand that much, except he’s causing a stir by slagging off the lefty presidential candidate, and he was making jokes about having put on weight since last being in the public eye.
As well as all this intellectual activity I manage to go out tonight to Madre Tierra, which is full of crusties. I haven’t seen this many dreadlocked people since being in the circus field at Glastonbury 2000. I didn’t realize San Cristóbal was such an attractive place for hippies….but now I can understand how reggae music became so popular here.

Friday 12th August

An easy day, soaking up the atmos along Guadalupe street, popped into a church and an orchid garden, had a hot chocolate, that kind of thing.
After my easy day I was ready for a night out (psyched up for reggae), but it was ruined by a police raid at El Circo. They shut down the music for about an hour and wandered around searching people, and filming the whole raid. That shows the level of trust people have in the police here, they have to film everything to prove that they were not being violent and aggressive to people during the raid. When we were allowed to leave, after they had finished, I was done for the night and went back to my new great hotel room to actually get some sleep.

Saturday 13th August

Another easy day, pretty much spent with Laura watching the rain from Mayambé restaurant and then from a café.
I went out to buy a phonecard at 7pm, and rather surprisingly didn’t get home until 1am. I met Jesús and his friends in the internet café, we soon picked up a couple of other girls and we went on a bar crawl. I practiced my Spanish loads, and the Mexican guys are all from San Cristóbal… locals. When I left the bar Jesús was insistent that I go to his house the next day for his dad’s 58th birthday party, I had to say yes before I was allowed to leave.

Sunday 14th August

The thing about traveling is that you pretty much want to experience as many random things as possible, so I went to meet Jesús. He was there on time – well only 10 mins late, which is extraordinary for a Mexican, and he drove me to his Dad’s house. I met his entire family, uncles, cousins, nieces etc and ate head tacos and roast beef. It turned out that Jesús was only back from Veracruz (where he now lives) for the weekend to go to this party, so I felt slightly awkward about being there when maybe he should be spending time talking to his family, but he had insisted I go and my new traveling ethos is to never turn down an invitation.

Monday 15th August

I was a bit iffy today. I walked up a big hill which helped, and then read the paper in the square. Met one of the Mexicans from yesterday for dinner (with some international friends too) and had average food in a posh looking restaurant. Disappointing, as the food here has been excellent so far.
Tuesday 16th August

Mountain biking with Los Pinguinos was supercool. We started early and went uphill a long way before following beautiful tracks down through little villages and by the river. I fared quite well I thought…. there were definitely people slower than me, and the downhill bits were fun. Yey, it’s my new sport, kind of like skiing…. you have the hairy downhill bits, but in between you are just tootling along through beautiful scenery. Except on skis getting up the hill is a bit easier.
I spent hours on the internet looking at volunteer work, and then went to meet the Mexican again (hopefully he has my cell phone which I left at the birthday party on Sunday). The Mexican (his name is Fito) didn’t show up. I was left sitting in the bar on my own, which I don’t normally mind, but here in San Cristóbal I don’t think it is the done thing. After getting some strange looks, and not making any friends, I decide that this is the kind of place where you are expected to hook up with a gang from your hostel, and any random company is considered better than being alone.

Wednesday 17th August

Move to a new house, a hostel where I have a bargain room and proper hot showers, mmmm. I have to move car to make way for bicycle game in the street outside. There is a fiesta in the nearest square, but for the next couple of hours the fun and games is in our street. Mexicans really are easily entertained. The game involves cycling slowly with a thin stick, then as you approach the washing line they have hung up, you have to try and hook your stick through a small ring dangling from the line by a red ribbon. The game is good, it’s the fact that they play and watch round after round, in the rain. We got bored and cold after about 5 minutes.

Thursday 18th August

Great day. My second ever visit to Ranch Nuevo caves, but this time with a guide; 10 year old Luis, who points out formations in the rock such as the head of sub-commander Marcos (without his pipe) and an exact copy of Guanajuato cathedral. My favourite was the ostrich. In the afternoon Chris, in return for being driven in the caves, came on a hike with me. As expected the guide book gave us completely stupid directions (such as “head for the two timber shacks with red roofs”), which lead us to a quarry at the top of the wrong hill. “You want the ruins?” the campesino said, “they’re at the top of that hill.” Great. We eventually found some small piles of rocks (I knew it was a crap site - I just fancied a walk) and then made our way back into town. We were hardly surprised to see an enormous sign to the ruins (Moxviquil) on the main road. Oh hail to the guidebook.

Friday 19th August

Today I found some random people from the hostel to come to a far away village (Tenajapa) where people stared and giggled as we walked down the high street. We ate in a comedor that served chicken, chicken, or chicken and it tasted exactly like the casseroles I make at home, a bizarre find in Mexico. But the highlight of the trip was visiting the women’s weaving initiative shop. We watched her working and the progress is SO slow. (I personally think she does it much faster when there aren’t tourists watching – but I’m a cynical witch). This is the kind of stuff I imagined selling in my fair-trade-eco-friendly-promote-indigenous-rights company, but since they claim it takes 3 months to make a table cloth, the UK prices would be astronomical. And I find it frustrating that these products are painstakingly hand made here, (imagine making a 2 foot wide embroidery bracelet - but much harder because you have to thread it through a loom as well) when machines have been invented that can do the task just as well.

Saturday 20th August

Since my new travel principle is to accept all invitations, today I am going to Fito’s ranch, about an hour out of San Cristóbal. It is his birthday gathering, and I am expecting sunshine, countryside, people and a little bit of luxury. Stine from the hostel is coming with me and as it is pissing down in SC we are glad to be leaving. Unfortunately it is still drizzling when we get to the ranch, and there are only four people there. The countryside is fantastic though, they have all sorts of fruit trees at the ranch and as we were dropping down from the mountains on the way here we saw some awesome scenery.
The weekend is somewhat marred by the fact that I lock my keys in the car soon after arriving and can’t get any of my stuff. The locksmith from town is drunk and at a party so he can’t help. Also, there is no electricity or water (so much for luxury), and when Fito goes out at 11ish to pick up some more friends he gets back so late we are all sleeping. The party never really got going!

Sunday 21st August

Sunday things get a bit weird. Fito’s dad manages to break into my car, which is fantastic news. This means I have my stuff and can go for a swim with the others, but it’s a bit chilly in the pool and we are all waiting for the hot tub to fill up (ok, there is a bit of luxury). The hot tub is just about full when Fito’s dad comes by again, he is chatting with everyone, and then suddenly they all get out of the pool and walk off. Fito quickly explains that they are going to play basketball at someone else’s ranch, and that me and Stine are welcome to stay by the pool if we like, then they all disappear! It’s very sudden. They said a non-mexican goodbye (waving, instead of doing the rounds kissing everyone), Fito quickly makes a lame arrangement to meet me the next day…he doesn’t even give a time, and then me and Stine are left there, at this random ranch in the rain. Odd.
Luckily for us, we don’t want to play basketball in the rain and we would much rather get wet by finding a raging waterfall (El Chiflon), hiking up to it and standing in the spray.
By the time we get back I have just enough energy to eat and go to bed.

Monday 22nd August

Today I managed to persuade the Frenchman and Stine to come on a real adventure.
We didn’t even know where the place was, but we were on the right road and aiming for a Zapatista caracol called Oventic. This is a self governed community where they are “keeping up the resistance” by providing their own schools and medical care, and painting all the buildings with revolutionary murals. When I asked them if the government minds what they are doing, the front man in our meeting reminded me that they are still involved in low-level warfare, so yes they do mind, but they also realize it’s kind of a good thing. I think “war” is putting it a bit strongly these days; they have been talking, not fighting, the last few years.
Anyway, we missed the Zapatistas standing on the gate and drove straight past the place the first time, but when we came back and parked they really did ask for our passports and give us an interview about why we wanted to come in. While we were waiting a the door, a woman with a gash in her leg was helped off a combi and through the gate by a group of men - it would seem that the clinic is functioning as it should for the local people; she was waved straight through, and I’m pretty sure no one was questioning her about medical insurance before treatment.
They were a bit offish with us because we hadn’t arrived from an organization, but once they had decided to let us in they gave us the welcome speech and showed us to our “junta”. During the meeting we were sitting facing 2 males and one female; genuine ski-mask wearing Zapatistas. The guy in the middle did all the talking, and we were somewhat disappointed that he kept giving us the same spiel and avoided answering many questions.
There is a strange mix here of being open and inviting in tourists (there were about 20 around on this day), but at the same time not wanting to give any details. He wouldn’t tell us how many people were in the community (“lots” he said) or whether they were planning more caracoles. And we didn’t really learn much about how it was run.
He did tell us that the caracol governs seven villages, provides a primary and secondary school and allows individuals to be “in”or “out” depending on whether they agree with the Zapatistas or not. When we asked what we could do to help it was quite refreshing to hear an answer that didn’t involve money… “tell people about us”, he said. So I am. (Well I’m telling the few members of my immediate friends and family that actually bother to read this website anyway).
As we wandered around the complex we saw the schools, and several artisan shops, run by the community with the name of the artist on each piece of embroidery or jewelry. There were also shops selling “laminas” which are an example of how the people in the community are looking after themselves economically without relying on tourists.
My favorite shop was the one selling cassettes of revolutionary songs.

We were inside for about 2 hours in total. We concluded that no one lived there except the foreign volunteers; it is clearly the administration centre with meeting places and drop-in advice centres, but no homes.
After buying a Marcos t-shirt each we left, through the stunning scenery and the pouring rain. I got confused though when I saw groups of teenagers with backpacks walking along the street. They looked exactly like school kids to me, but why are they going to a school that’s not the one with Che Guevara on the side that I’ve just taken photos of? If I was being cynical I would think that maybe the seven villages in the caracol are actually pretty tiny, and that there are a fair few people who opt out of the self-government scheme.

Tuesday 23rd August

Ooops. I left my cell phone from England in the car. I actually thought last night “Oh, I should go and get it” but I was tired and had a cold and it was raining. Who would break into my car in a thunderstorm? Some arsehole that’s who. So today I cleaned up glass, then phoned UPS who are also arseholes (41 mins for 1 call), said goodbye to my adventuring friends

Wednesday 24th August

A lovely day sitting in the sun. First at the spare parts shop, then a splendid couple of hours at some cowboy’s workshop where I watched them replace the glass in the window. They ripped out parts of the door with absolutely no consideration of how they were going to put them back again, just hacking away at the lock with a screwdriver. But hey eventually it was done and it was pretty cheap.

On the road!!!!
www.gurneysjourneys.com

Tuesday 19th July
 
DF to magic hostel in Oaxaca city today. Driving on my own was easy. I’ve decided I’m on a mission to teach Mexicans to drive by setting an excellent example: I use my indicator, and then I move in that direction. I’m hoping it will catch on.
On the way out of the city my favourite volcanoes were looking fantastic, Popcatapetl was throwing up plumes of smoke. (Little did I know it was about to erupt…just a little bit, on Friday)

Wednesday 20th July
 
Mitlaaaaaa, we visited the archeological site; good size (small) and my favourite thing to look at was the original painting left near the church. Obviously the original paintings at teenager height had been scratched over with graffiti, but the ones up high were still intact.
Teotitlán was jaw-dropingly expensive, it’s famous for rugs, but I don’t know how they sell any if they really think we are going to pay $6000 (300 of your English pounds) for a bed sized rug.
To top of our tour we went to see El Tule. It’s a very big tree, but Dave wasn’t impressed and thought it didn’t warrant the town being built around it.

Thursday 21st July
 
Drove to Escondido via highway 131 with some random French girls I met. That is a very bad road with potholes and rain and fog. 7 hours after we set off we arrive in Puerto Escondido, and, surprisingly, Zicatela beach is full. We end up in a half built hotel.. well it’s cheap anyway.
 
Friday 22ndJuly
 
It’s always nice to have breakfast overlooking the pacific and watching the surfers. The French had left when I got back to the hotel, and my shower was ruined when I pulled the shower head off. I really hope he wasn’t serious when he said “we will follow up any payment due for damages” on the form we signed. Spent the afternoon with an American called Frank, he showed me some ultimate frisbee tricks. Then drinks with some of the old sea dogs, I think they were bit wrecked. Actually I think they are pretty much wrecked all the time. Turns out most of the people with business’ and money round here are foreign. Dan also warned me how much stick you can get for stealing someone’s wave. He reckons someone got their house burned down. But by the time they were arguing about whether Tim the Californian or Greg the Canadian had more money I was getting pretty bored. Although I was surprised to hear Tim’s claim that his personal water supply is equal to the rest of the town’s supply put together.
So, I can’t find Frank and finally get round to calling Tanya…. Guess what? The Mexican has let me down and she’s not coming after all. It really does seem that Mexicans are unreliable.. however much I want to be wrong about it. The half built swimming pool at the cheap hotel is a good example.. the owner had to sack the guys who were doing it and when he asked all the other hotel owners who had pools, every single one said, “oooh no, don’t get the man who did ours he was awful it took us forever”.
Anyway I shed a tear about my destroyed plans and hopes of driving to Guatemala when Cecil started talking to me. I did really well meeting him; he has met Sub commander Marcos…wow! And he’s a film maker who lives in New York. And he’s Mexican and he knows more about the Zapatistas and Mexican politics than I do. (I doubt any of the sea dogs I met yesterday could claim that). So I chat with Cecil whilst watching fire dancers on the beach and getting very very annoyed with the troop of public school English sitting too close by. I’m not sure the Mexican believes me when I tell him I already know their life stories just from their accents, but when I here the conversation about which a-levels they took I know I do. And that’s pretty much what sends me to bed.

Saturday 23rd July
 
I seem to have brought my posh Mexican lifestyle with me on holiday. So much for mixing with the locals on my travels! I finally plucked up the courage to go round to Cecil’s house at about 6pm. I rang the bell and was shown through to the lounge by the “help”. She was wearing a uniform; a Oaxacan white embroidered dress, and when I walked in, as well as a nice white wine in a basket, there was a little bell on the table. Once again I am out of my league. Once again it doesn’t bother me and I just go with it. Diego, the father, is an architect, and a bloody good one if this place is anything to go by, and Patricia is the younger girlfriend. They are friendly and invite me to the pool. wow. We’re in dream home territory here, and this is the holiday home. Well after the swim I have to sit down to dinner with no pants on (I was wearing my bikini when I arrived and that is wet now, obviously). I find this slightly uncomfortable, eat a little then get away when I can, promising to meet them in a bar later.
I never make it to the bar because I am too busy having the worst diarrhea of my life. I don’t sleep at all and nearly land myself in hospital on Sunday by getting really dehydrated (even though I was drinking loads of water). But I dragged myself to the chemist just in time and the doctor came and looked after me.

Sunday 24th July
 
Sick. But Cecil finds me and brings me fruit! Hooray. Being ill with no one to look after you is horrible. He invites me to the palace to stay in the guest room and I have to say no as I’m scared I’ll shit myself on their floor. And the idea of anyone other than me (i.e. the “help”), clearing up my shit is very wrong.

Monday 25th July
 
Still quite sick. I eat some crackers and bananas

Tuesday 26th July
 
Better!!! I will not be eating off the street again in a hurry. I make it into town and decide to stay in my nice (although slightly pricey) hotel until the surfing competition on Sunday. But then I tell them and they are kind enough to point out the competition is Monday and Tuesday. I let a Mexican masseuse have a go at sorting my chakras out. He rubbed a lot of sand into me (by mistake), and beat me with mint leaves (on purpose). Apparently I’m even better now. Ah, and I discovered the magic of my new small, but great for getting my bum brown, bikini. Some random boys, young enough to be my students came over and asked me what I was doing later! I couldn’t stop laughing.
Am I really going to stay here another week?

Wednesday 27th July
 
Yes. I clearly am going to stay another week in Puerto Escondido. But I’m going to work hard on the writing, see some world class surfing, and ask for a discount at the hotel. I don’t think I’ll get the discount though. I’m sure they can see right through me and know I’ll pay.

Saturday 30th July go back
 
Well I’ve done four solid poos since the last entry; you can’t imagine how happy I am about that. My bum is getting browner.. in the sexy bikini.
I met a range of awful people last night: I ate with a guy who asked “are you a happy person?” half way through dinner. No wonder he never gets past first dates. I mean what are you supposed to say? “No. Actually I’m a miserable bitch..” I ditched him and hung with the aussies at my hotel where I was subjected to monologues by a girl who says each sentence of her story twice. I HEARD THE FIRST TIME! Then I went to a beach party where I got to practice my Spanish. But after I’d been talking to the guy for a while I realized he must be on cocaine or something as he was just gabbling without any concern whether I was understanding, listening or yawning (which I was, regularly). So tonight I’m going to stay in with my new best friend Barbara (Babs) – that’s my computer.

Sunday 31st July
 
A whole lot better than last Sunday!
Last night was my first proper experience of “Iguana”. It doesn’t start until 3am so I was pleased with myself for staying out late. I was so busy trying to avoid talking to idiots that I didn’t talk to anyone at all until about 1am, when I met some 20 year olds shouting rude words in French. They are easily the beat people around because they are actually having fun rather than pretending to be cool.
And today, apart from sleeping, eating and watching the surf at sunset, I didn’t do a whole lot.

Monday 1st August
 
The tiburones versus the malaguas in the Mexicans only leg of the X-games. The commentator insists on saying “I see some bumps out the back” several times even though everyone can see clearly that this is tiny surf for the “Mexican Pipeline”. Then at 10am when it’s all over I swim, rest and eat. The woman at the taco shop is my new friend, even though she is the millionth person to look at me like I’m crazy when I tell her I’m alone. And so far 100 % of the people I’ve met responded “teaching english?” when I told them I was a teacher here. I prefer the response Dave got in Oaxaca, “You’re not one of those joker TEFL teachers are you?” to which he lied and said no!

Tuesday 2nd August
 
The big day…X-games eleven. No Kelly Slater though, but the waves seemed quite good. (To be honest it’s hard for me to tell. The commentators seemed to be getting very excited, but that’s there job innit).
C.J. Hobbit got spat out of a tube after everyone thought he had been knocked over (that got a big cheer) and the East team won overall (no one seemed particularly bothered by that).
I spent the rest of the day looking for pro surfers, (My favourite is Corey Lopez). Then went out for a few drinks in the evening where I completely embarrassed myslf and acted like a 15 year old. I met some good German guys who were quick to pick up on my sense of humour and realize that I was taking the piss out of myself. Unfortunately the pro groupies didn’t find me amusing and thought I was being serious when I referred to myself as a “pro ‘ho”.
The upshot of the evening was that I had brief drunken conversations with Chris Ward, someone else, and Brad ……….., founder of x-games, then fended off the advances of a German and staggered home to bed.

Wednesday 3rd August
 
I left Escondido!!! And I managed it with a hangover.
After perusing the beached of the Oaxaca coast (because I have a car, and I can!), I end up in Zipolite in a cabin with holes in the roof. So when a storm comes in during dinner I’m not best pleased. Luckily only one of the two beds is wet, and none of my stuff.
Because everyone told me not to go alone I am now under pressure to meet people, which means being polite. Then hopefully I can put up with them long enough to get to San Cristobal, my next port of call. Actually maybe I should just be nice and stop being rude about everyone.

Thursday 4th August
 
1. Move out.
2. Meet “suntekkers” for breakfast… the 100 % “teaching English is it?” record still stands, and I have now stopped being rude about everyone so I will say nothing.
3. Go for a snorkel trip- what better way to make friends? Except it turns out I am the only person. So after stopping at several hotels on the way to Puerto Angel (the next beach), they cancel the trip. Puerto Angel is great for swimming and I have a bit, just a bit, of a snorkel and see an eel and an unpuffed puffa fish.
4. Meet yet another Mexican (I’m in a bit of a quandary-when I want to meet Mexicans I only meet foreigners, but when I want to meet foreigners.. guess what?). But he monologues me, and he mumbles, all the way home. He told me it was a 3km walk back, I was imagining the cliff path around Cornwall, but actually it was along a track and then the main road, and the whole way I was trying to concentrate on what he was saying.He definitely said that a bird once landed on his head, and this was a sign from God. And that had something to do with the fact that he wants to be a sculptor, but is actually a fisherman.
5. Move to a hotel where there are loads of potential friends. But as soon as I put my hammock up they all leave to get overnight buses back to Oaxaca. Great. Now I’m stuck talking to the American manager. I don’t know what to make of him yet, (see I’m still not being rude).

Friday 5th August
 
Today I mostly snorkeled and sat on a boat. The kid from the boat jumped on the back of a turtle and held it still while hoards of Mexicans and Italians in bright orange life jackets swarmed around posing for photos. Hmmm. Poor turtle. They do these trips every day, I wonder how often they get the same turtle. “Oh bugger, not this again” he’s thinking.
My best company yet for dinner. We spent an interesting five minutes discussing with the neuroscience student how to perform brain surgery on rats, whilst sitting among candles on the beach, eating great Italian food and being able to see the milky way. (traveling’s great). Unfortunately none of these guys are going my way. On the way back along the beach we watch storms off towards the horizon, enormous streaks of lightning illuminating in bright orange the clouds around. Beautiful. I love nature when it’s looking so good.

Saturday 6th August
 
Without an activity Zipolite is pretty boring. Actually it’s the heat that gets me. I’m just too uncomfortable to be able to read my book. I’m definitely leaving tomorrow.
Tonight the dinner conversation is not as stimulating. Luckily the stars are all still there and in the sea the luminous algae is just about visible. The three girls, Charlie, Rosie, and Katie actually asked me “What part of London are you from?” Obviously in their social bubble the rest of the country doesn’t exist.

Sunday 7th August
 
I’m still here. I did wake up at 7am, but after being kept awake at 2ish by the English lads shouting, and having had a couple last night, I’m not really up for the drive today.

This is lucky in a way because I saw something bizarre and interesting on the beach. A couple of nights ago my new sexy bikini (which was actually a bit small for me) was stolen from the chair outside my room (thieving Zipolite hippies). Then walking along the beach today I spotted a big hairy man wearing a t-shirt and MY BIKINI BOTTOMS! How does this man possibly fit in my pants? And why the hell would he want to wear girls’ pants anyway? The people here are very strange. I’m getting my camera in case he comes back past.
mypantssmall.JPG

Monday 8th August                                                                                       
 
I finally left Zipolite. After hanging out with aussie Linda for 2 days she decided to come with me to Tehauntepec tonight and then to San Cristobal tomorrow. It is true that there are no tourists here, but you can see why; it is hot, the hotels are shabby and there’s not a whole lot to do. We look for some frescos the “bible” had told us about, but some man stops us from walking down the street because of the bandinos (?). Hmmm, then dinner in an almost empty restaurant. Pretty standard for traveling in Mexico.