Howling, Trekking, and Fear Free Summits

A Weekend in Palenque

Since moving to Chiapas I’ve had a visit to Palenque pencilled in on my ‘to do’ list.  I remember keeping Ayutthaya on it during my time in Nakhon Sawan, but this trip never transpired.  It seems the places on my doorstep are infrequently prioritised.  Not that Palenque is on my doorstep with 275km separating us, but in Mexico this distance is practically a stone’s throw away.  The whole country is 1,972,550 square km, dwarfing my little Ireland.  In 10 hours by bus I would only reach the neighbouring state here.  After 10 hours on the road from my home town, I would find myself in serious need of an amphibious car.

So I hopped on the ADO overnight bus with my travel pillow, and ingested a couple of travel sick pills following some very sound advice from a friend whose entire family threw up on the windy road trip.  I slept through every bend and turn and woke up bright and bushy at the Palenque ADO station.  I hopped in a taxi and 60 pesos later I was at a hostel on the road to the ruins, which was a rookie mistake as there are a zillion Colectivos that take savvy travellers along the same route for 20 pesos, #facepalm. 

I wandered into a little establishment called ‘El Panchan’, where I was hoping to find an

available room.  In an earlier attempt to pre-book, I found the website confusing as it had information on three different accommodation options, all of which looked almost identical, and some vague directions on how to book.  I contacted them asking if I could book a room and gave my dates and was either told, “Yes, it’s available”, or “if it’s available”, and then our communication dropped off despite a follow up mail from me.  The difference between these two sentences is a simple accent, and I couldn’t tell whether the response was the former or the latter (with the accent lazily omitted).  Sometimes the language barrier leaves me withered and I usually end up winging it rather than have a confusing e-mail thread that leaves me frustrated at how little Spanish I really know.  So I rocked up as early as possible and hoped for the best.  I was checked in by 10am after having a delicious breakfast accompanied by two much needed coffees in the friendly bar.  The confusion of the website made sense when I arrived and had a look around.  It seems El Panchan is more of a community with several small businesses operating independently under one umbrella, so to speak, so the booking system explained on the website is rather pointless in my opinion.  How can you know which one you’re actually booking?  Anyway, I ended up in El Jaguar, in a triple room with private bathroom, and a décor resembling a humble jungle.  It was pretty quaint and smack bang in the middle of the actual jungle.  I had read that you can hear howler monkeys at night.  Some reviewers on Tripadvisor complained of the blood curdling noise keeping them awake, but I was really excited at the prospect of the experience.  I unpacked a few things for the day and set off to find the ruins.

As I mentioned, there are Colectivos that travel the route so it’s easy to get to the ruins, but it was a pleasant day for an amble so I wandered along the road for the short walk.  I stopped along the way for a visit to the museum in the hope that I might get a crash course in Mayan history.  The exhibition is very interesting and well laid out in a comfortably air conditioned space, with information in both Spanish and English.  I brushed up on some facts, all of which tumbled out of my sieve-like head within seconds.  The upside was that it made for a nice cooling break in my walk, and it was here that I purchased my ticket into the Archaeological site. 

The route to the ruins was an upland hike through the jungle, which surprised me as I had

the presumption that they would just be sitting at the roadside.  I had no idea.  I’m not one for reading a lot on a place I’m about to visit.  Once I get the feeling I want to go there, then I just about research how to get there but as for what to expect, I just roll with it.  Why bother, if you’re going to see it anyway?  Plus, reading up on places sets expectations and plans, and I’d much rather see what happens.  Nine times out of ten, amazing things happen when you don’t know what to expect, and trusting your gut can bring you some great adventures.  So I trundled on up to amongst trees, past waterfalls, and over a wobbly wooden bridge to find the remains of a great city in its untouched natural environment.  Feeling the sweaty recollection of the Pagodas in Bagan (http://sineadnua.blogspot.mx/2015/04/mingalaba.html), I scaled the Palace and sat to enjoy the view before the paralytic panic of acrophobia set in.  I sat in the midday sun and cursed my Swiss cheese brain for not bringing sunscreen.  Here comes another lobster face.  I heard some sniggering guys mention the red queen as they descended alongside me, but I remembered this being something to do with the history of Palenque and put my paranoia in a box.  In a temple facing the Palace, the burial place of an unidentified woman was discovered, so called the ‘Red Queen’ because she is thought to have been noble and she was covered in a red powdered mineral called cinnabar.

I wandered around the ruins, and even scaled another without fear, to my delight.  I hope that as I age I might shed a fear or two.  Losing my fear of heights and of deep water would be welcomed.  Maybe I could swap them for a fear of pepperoni pizza and red wine so I can finally get my arse in shape.  I paid a visit to the line of peddlers surrounding the ancient city and found some gifts for myself.  I also had my eye on a little toy I thought my nephew would appreciate.  The seller greeted me in English so our conversation continued in my first language, and while I queried the price I overheard him discussing it in Spanish with a colleague.  I held my tongue until he quoted a number in English that was four times the price he set in Spanish.  I repeated the numbers I heard in my novice level of the language and his face dropped.  I politely wished him a good day and bought the exact same thing from another seller who didn’t take me quite as far to the cleaners.  It can be a benefit to feign ignorance as a foreigner.  Then you can separate the businessmen from the swindlers.  The guy I bought from made a satisfactory 200% profit while I left happy that I didn’t pay the other guy.  This brought back a memory from Nakhon Sawan when I was waiting at a mechanics workshop while he repaired my motorbike.  He called out to a woman across the street, made some hand gesture, pointed to me, and said something that I didn’t understand, and then the two of them laughed AT me.  I waited silently, shoving down the temptation to smack him with a wrench, until he fixed my bike.  Then I mimicked the gesture he made, and asked him in Thai, “What is that?”  After his jaw crashed to the ground in shameful disbelief, I informed him that I understand Thai and gave him my ‘don’t feck with me’ look, because really I don’t speak perfect Thai so I don’t know what ‘feck’ translates to.  He apologised profusely and my bike repair was, of course, free.  Motto: Be kind, always.

So, with my souvenirs in my backpack, and smugness on my reddened face, I returned to my hostel for some lunch accompanied by a spicy Michelada and followed by an afternoon snooze.  I spent the evening reading and sipping more Micheladas until sleep weighed my eyelids.  I woke to the sound of an amazing live band and considered getting up to go see them, but in my hazy state I went back to sleep and snored right through the music.  I heard tales of the fantastic atmosphere the following day but felt no regret.  Sleep is mandatory to a teacher whose alarm clock stuns her awake at 5am each morning.  Said alarm clock is slowly losing components due to being flung at 5.05am each day.  As for the howler monkeys, I heard only one to my disappointment.  I had hoped to have been woken by the chilling roars overhead; I wanted to feel the thrill of the scare.  There are some things I don’t fear after all. 

After a satisfying breakfast of eggs, frijoles, and French bread, I went to meet my guide for the day.  I had arranged a walk through the jungle with a guy called Gabriel, who operates at El Panchan from a shop where his Canadian girlfriend sells her handmade clothes and jewellery. We waited for the rest of the group to arrive, consisting of one other, a Romanian guy called Alex.  The three of us set off by Colectivo to one of the jungle entrances open to the public.  The jungle is vast and only sections are available to the unfamiliar tourist.  Our guide however grew up in this area so his knowledge of the jungle is rather like my knowledge of my Mum’s back garden, he knows every square inch.  Although I must admit that this comparison may be inaccurate.  I was 21 years old when I discovered a big flowering Cherry Blossom tree gracefully standing at the far corner of my Mother’s garden.  I blurted out, “Where did that massive tree come from?” assuming it had been planted like that.  My Mother informed me that it had been there since we moved in, 15 years before.  So much for knowing every square inch of that place, but I think since then I’ve recorded the details of my childhood home more carefully for fear of embarrassing myself any further.  Gabriel took us along the path, where we stopped for a little chat with the jungle.  Yep, that’s what I said.  Gabriel explained that it is believed that the jungle is a living being and that we must respect her (I love that she’s a she) and ask for permission to enter.  This seemed strange to me, but while I sat there I realised that it’s not totally bonkers to realise that we are not the only living beings on the planet.  So although asking the jungle for permission to enter may seem unorthodox to me, showing respect for it seems completely reasonable.  It was suggested that we might want to speak to the jungle in our own language, so I silently asked, “An bhfuil cead agam dul isteach?”  I figured I’d try the tactic of asking for permission in Irish, so a silence may be understood as acceptance, a la planning permission posts in newspapers.

We moved on along the path and quickly diverted down through the tress towards the

river.  Gabriel stopped to point out some interesting things along the way, and picked leaves and twigs to tell us about their properties.  One you can boil in water and the liquid provides relief for stomach ache, the other smelled deliciously like a peppermint inhaler I carried with me in Thailand for relief from heat related headaches.  I took in it’s refreshing scent as we sauntered through the jungle, winding around spiky tree trunks and carefully stepping over ant armies.  Gabriel led the way with his finely tuned eyes watching out for snakes.  I just nudged that fact right out of my head, best not to think about it or I wouldn’t go any further.  There was life and activity all around, from insects underfoot to howler monkeys overhead, even including the plant life.  Gabriel’s advice was to look before you touch, or you could end up being bitten or spiked.  Every life form in the jungle has it’s own defense system and we are it’s most fierce enemies. 

We stopped for a moment to dig mud out of the ground; this reddish pliable clay was to be used later in what Gabriel called, “a spa treatment”.  We stopped at the river where there was a little waterfall and prepared to get in.  I had a swimsuit on under my clothes so I peeled off my jogging bottoms and t shirt and got into the water, spreading the clay all over myself.  Alex announced that he had forgotten a change of clothes so he whipped off everything and in he went.  Gabriel was delighted with the inhibition so he disrobed fully too and got in the water.  So there was I, covered in mud, surrounded by naked men.  An interesting development.  I had a swim and washed the mud off at the base of the waterfall.  Feeling refreshed, I got out of the water to dry myself off, taking great care to keep my eyes fixed on the penis free zone ahead of me.  I suppose, being at one with nature, it made sense to be naked but, baby steps eh?

We moved on up through the jungle, via the river, stepping barefoot up through the almost dry waterfalls.  During this time of year the river is ankle deep, but in rainy season the waterfalls flow energetically.  We stopped at many ruins that have become part of the natural environment.  Much of the immense Mayan city in Palenque is yet to be discovered, and a lot of it sits in the jungle entangled in tree roots.  I wondered what the view was like to the Mayans who built this city as I looked up at the shell of a building and tried to picture it as it once was.  Now, much older than the trees that envelope it, it sits encased in the jungle that has claimed it.  We climbed on top of a ruin and took a moment to absorb the smells and sounds around us, including the unmistakable roar of howler monkeys.  We decided to follow the sound until we discovered a group of them perched at the top of the tall trees.  I learned that they don’t come down, unless they fall!  Their whole lives are spent in the trees, and the spikes on some of the other trees we saw earlier began to make sense.  Each life form in the jungle has it’s own form of self preservation, enabling everything to co-exist.  As careful as we were not to be destructive, one creature did fall victim to our curiosity, the humble termite.  We approached a nest which Gabriel poked his finger through and withdrew a pinch of residents for us to taste.  I thought they couldn’t be any more gross than the cockroaches I ate in Chiang Mai so I gave them a try.  Strangely they tasted sweet and crunchy, like tiny carrots.  Gabriel told me that the insects would take an hour or so to repair the hole he made, but that he does the same thing the very next day with a new group of walkers.  Those poor termites.  I can picture a tiny facial composite of Gabriel with the words, ‘Beware of this human’ inside the nest, and the little termite cries of “Goddammit” with each hole punched.

We headed back towards an exit where the sight of food stalls, tour guides, and souvenir sellers brought us tumbling back to civilisation.  I jumped on a Colectivo and returned to my hostel to collect my bag and scoff some lunch before my seven hour bus journey to Tuxtla.  Lunch was a delicious plate of fried tacos washed down by a Michelada (naturally), and enjoyed with the melodies of merry Latino music that was being performed live in the bar.  When posters for happy hour were erected, announcing 2 for 1 cocktails, I was tempted to stay but the thought of being tipsy on those windy roads sprung me back to reason, so I picked up my bag and bid El Panchan hasta luego (see you later). 

Images: Sinéad Millea.

http://www.elpanchan.com/

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