Mexico Road Trip: Zen and Chuletas de Puerco
It’s not that I am a great language learner because I certainly don’t consider that to be the case. But I do focus intensely on what is being said and in the conversations that I have. This should give hope to all that have miserable accents no matter what the language. If I can do it I feel certain that anyone can…
We leave Palenque mid-morning and start the climb into the Chiapas highlands. The road is curvy but good. Everything is a shade of green except for the juanacastre trees, some fifty plus meters high that are in a full yellow flower bloom. After an hour of slow driving I pull off the side road to Misol-Ha, an unexpected stop. This is the great thing about not going on a tour or having a planned itinerary; the beauty of this type of travel is one can do what one feels like doing or as we Mexicans say – lo que nos da la gana. We drive through the lush green countryside and can see the fields of green corn.
I park in the parking lot and can tell the French and Germans have already beaten us here today. They are coming by the dozens in tour busses. I actually admire them and don’t mean to belittle them but it’s a natural tendency for us to kid each other…it is natural for us to disagree. They are great travelers and are comfortable in other countries even where the language is different…I have been impressed how many of them speak credible Spanish. And of course English – particularly the Germans. But I have to say their Mayan stinks…ha.
We can hear the water pouring before we see it as we walk down the path to the falls. It is a most impressive site – some 35 meters of waterfall. I, along with the French and Germans, am snapping pictures like crazy. There are a few Mexicans today but no Americans…we are not are very adventuresome country I would guess. We take the walkway under the waterfalls and it is a most beautiful sight. Just as in Palenque, nature wins almost every time when competing for beauty with humans. If art imitates nature then we still have a long way to go…
Misol-Ha was the film set for the Predator, a bad movie I think I watched late one night once in Can Cun. The falls and surrounding area is administered by the Ejido Misol-Ha but I’m not sure if they actually own it or not…as if any person or organization can actually ‘own’ such a place. I won’t get into that Zen argument again…ha!
The Ejido runs the restaurant and cabins and my business developer funny brain quickly estimate the number of jobs created at 40-50. I am a proponent of eco-tourism -- another difference I have with the Zapatistas. The Germans will go anywhere that is attractive and not trashed. And there is a steady stream of German and French tour vans piling in and Angelica remarks that anyone could be successful running this place.
We order chuletas de puerco which comes with the tortillas, black beans and a tomato and lettuce salad. I also have a Corona. Delicious, especially as this is our breakfast and lunch. It would be easy to linger but it’s time to go…
The road climbs steadily and it gets curvier as well. We see some green corn fields planted on some very steep slopes…something I’ve never really figured out why. But corn does grow almost anywhere and I certainly am not a farmer…
I pull off at another sign called Agua Clara or clear water; another eco-park but obviously not as well kept as Misol-Ha. And very different as well. We park in the lot and 20 kids surround the car and start sticking their hands in the windows. Some carry trinkets, fruits and other items for sale. Others just beg. I roll the windows up and lock the car. I have not seen such forceful begging since way back in my Africa travels many years ago…I keep thinking this is not Africa.
They follow me down the path and one of the young girls pats my stomach…I’m not sure why other than it is perhaps larger after being filled by the good lunch. The kids are curious and hungry and most appear malnourished. Most live in an ejido across the river…
There are no waterfalls and maybe that is why there are no Germans here. The river is wide and deep and I can see the current is strong in the middle. I tell the kids it must be dangerous to swim in and they reply no…they swim in it every day. But they don’t go out into the middle…a sign warns bathers to not swim while drunk…good advice for this kind of river.
Angelica sits down for a chat with the kids and I take a walk up the river. I see a snake and a large iguana run from me – I’m sure I must look scary. Several Indians pass and turn away right as they approach…they are very shy. I’m not and say ‘buenas tardes’ to all. They reply back…some with a Spanish that is barely understandable. The kids speak broken Spanish with a heavy accent as well. Just as not knowing English is a barrier to upward mobility in the US, not knowing Spanish is a barrier in Mexico.
The river narrows and I can see a walk bridge maybe twenty feet above it and fifty meters long. It is built on thick cables and is an impressive work. There are a steady stream of users and I ask one what is on the other side…he answers a community or ejido. Everything that goes in or out of this community has to be carried across this bridge. I shoot some pictures and Angelica finally joins me. There are a few kids that are still persistently following her. She finally buys some bananas and sugar cane but that doesn’t stop them either – if anything that motivates them even more.
We cross the bridge but do not enter the ejido. The afternoon is wearing on and a number of folks have warned me about driving this particular road after dark. As we get back to the car the voices of the children are louder and more persistent. One little boy keeps asking me over and over for five pesos for a pen so he can write in school. We heard the same story yesterday and will hear it again. That must get the best results as people figure the poor kids cannot go to school without a pen.
As we drive away I feel saddened. Everything has failed these kids and many are forced into begging. Where are their parents, community leaders, government or Zapatistas?
We drive down out of the mountains and into our first Zapatista town. We can tell it is so because there is a large hand painted sign telling us so. We pull over and a young girl asks us for five pesos so she can buy a pen for school. I tell her I will if she will let me take her picture…I want to ask her questions about the Zapatistas but decide she is too young… Subcommandante Marcos is no where to be found either…where is his Revolution? How has his communist doctrines helped this young Indian girl who is begging me for money? How can this girl’s plight in this Zapatista town be blamed on global trade and capitalism? I don't get it.
The girl has a hole in her shirt and Angelica pulls it down for the picture. We give her ten pesos and I feel frustrated and angry…not just at Marcos or the government but with all the lousy factors that have created this girls misery. I can see the malnutrition on her face and yet all my first world wisdom fails me. I have no answers. If Marcos were debating me here he would say I have no solution either and he would be right. The Zapatistas aren’t a solution; they are a symptom. But neither can do anything about it…If it were only this town my logic might work; but there are tens of thousands of those just like her in this region.
Near the summit we see some ropes stretched across the road. As I slow down, six kids come running to the car, sticking their hands in the window and offering to sell fried bananas, pan de helote or cornbread and slices of sugar cane. I try to drive away and they partially block the car; a dangerous situation at best and one that is more than just a little irritating. This happens several more times and each time I just hope I don’t run over someone’s foot…
We drive through more small towns; some of them Zapatista and some not. By nightfall we arrive at Ocosingo and find a hotel.
We take a walk and the town is busy. Thankfully no one asks me for money for school supplies.
Jack D. Deal
