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/

http://www.facebook.com/InlakeshAlakem

Dances with Parachicos

Fiesta Grande de Enero

I wasn’t so put out about Christmas vacation coming to an end this year.  I had a party plan for January, no dry month for me this year (who am I kidding?  I did that once, ages ago, and only lasted til the 29th).  I had been invited to celebrate the Fiesta Grande de Enero, in Chiapa de Corzo, with my Chiapanecan colleague.  The festival is a celebration of many feasts that fall during the month of January, including those of the patron saints, Our Lord of Esquipulas, Anthony the Great, and Saint Sebastian.  There are several different aspects to the festival, all steeped in history. 

At the beginning of the festival, men dress as Chiapanecan women with full make up and head dress and parade the streets.  I have heard that this tradition was born out of the protection of women who wanted to celebrate, the men dressed as women to accompany them.  Another story I’ve read about is that these men, referred to as ‘Chuntas’, represent the servants of Doña María de Angula, who I will tell you about.  These days it’s an opportunity for the men to have some fun and express their feminine side, and it provides those who would rather do this more often an opportunity to do so in a safe environment in, to my observation, an ordinarily macho society.

There is also a day when the Chiapanecans, the women of Chiapa de Corzo, fill the streets in their colourful dresses, but the evening I attended was when the Parachicos danced in the streets.  These are the men who dress in sarapes, which are poncho-like striped shawls, bristly hats made of a fibre called ixtle, and wooden masks that are decorated to mimic a Spanish face.  These take a bit of getting used to.  The eyes are painted, with holes underneath them for the wearer to see through.  You haven’t felt fear until you’ve looked into the painted eyes of a Parachico mask for the first time.  But once you get used to them, they’re pretty cool to watch.  The Spanish influence comes from an old colonial story about a rich Spanish woman called Doña María de Angula, whose son had a paralytic illness, which no doctor could cure.  She travelled in search of one and arrived in Chiapa de Corzo where she met a healer who directed her to bathe her son in a small lake.  To distract the young boy, some local men dressed as Spaniards and danced for the boy.  This is said to have cured him and the tradition of the dance lived on.  It became known as ‘Para el Chico’, which translates as ‘for the boy’.  This term has evolved and now the dancers are known as ‘Parachicos’.

There are many patrons of the festival who convert the front room of their homes to an area housing a statue, and decorated with offerings.  The status of patron is a much sought after one as it is a great honour.  The public are invited inside to pay respect to the saints, and the Parachicos are offered food and drinks.  During the evening, the Parachico dancers parade between these homes and stop to dance.  They fill the room and spill out to the street to perform a rather mesmerising stomp-like dance in complete silence.  All that can be heard is the sound of their feet pounding the ground.  I stood in the midst of all of this and looked around to see masked men, all dancing in unison, as if sharing one mind.  It was hypnotising.  At each stop the dancers drink, so as the night unfolds these guys get pretty intoxicated.  I was stumbled on my many, but here in Mexico politeness is of utmost importance so they were the most civilised of drunks as they apologised for bumping from person to person through the crowded streets. 

After following the parade for about an hour or so, I accompanied my friends to a house where the residents had put tables and chairs outside and served Micheladas to thirsty festival goers.  Many homes became small businesses, selling 6 packs, food, and drinks.  The petite cobbled streets were alive with activity, where people danced to live bands and drank until the wee hours of the morning.  I reluctantly left the party to return to my bed, as the stark reality of a 5am alarm call can dim any party atmosphere.  I envied the residents of the town, where most businesses close to allow people to continue the celebrations, but thirty minutes along the highway to Tuxtla, it’s business as usual.

The festival comes to a close in late January with a reenaction of a naval battle on the river, a huge fireworks display, and two days of parades.  It wouldn’t surprise me if the people in Chiapa de Corzo spend Febrary sleeping off January.  However here in Mexico people have bags of energy.  I’m still searching for the source..

Images: Sinéad Millea

A ghostly weekend

Dia De Los Muertos

My initial understanding of the Day of the Dead festival was that it was Mexico’s version of Hallowe’en.  I now realise it’s much more than that.  Like our Pagan inspired festivities during All Hallow’s Eve, Dia Los Muertos is centred on souls who have passed before us.  But while we run from door to door dressed as the latest comic villain, the Mexicans give the event a more personal touch.  Altars are constructed and displayed in homes and businesses, and are dedicated to people who have passed away.  They are usually decorated with marigolds, and filled with the favourite foods and drinks of the person being remembered, as it is believed that they will return on the night to eat and drink from it.

Cemeteries are, in my mind, places of mourning, quiet but for the deafening din of loss.  However, on the night of this Mexican celebration, they are festooned with flowers and altars, the food is eaten, and music is played in celebration of those who have died.  It’s bright, it’s colourful, and it’s noisy.  For me this seemed a strange tradition, for I am not a fan of cemeteries, I don’t like to think of our dead there in that hollowed ground.  But in Mexico it is believed that the spirits arrive and visit for one more night, an ideal that most long for after losing a loved one. From my perspective, I feel ill at ease with having to face the memories of someone who has gone, to feel their loss all over again, so I was yet to be won over on the ‘partying at the graveside’ front.

At school we had a celebration of our own and the teachers constructed a fabulous altar dedicated to the children’s song writer, Cri Cri (Francisco Gabilondo Soler), who died in 1990.  Each of the Kindergarten teachers played a part of one of Cri Cri’s animal characters and we put on a show for the students where we danced around to a selection of his songs.  I played a mouse and, with hindsight, I realise that dangling costume elements may not have been a great idea as I jumped about escaping little hands that were trying to pull off my tail.  You live and learn in the world of Kindy teaching.  After the performance everyone sat down to the food and drinks that were displayed on the altar; Mexican favourites such as tamales, pozol, and pan de muertos. Having experienced my first Dia Los Muertos celebration, and witnessed delight rather than sadness, I felt more at ease with the idea of the celebratory customs and began to feel like it was a much more positive tradition for all involved.

With my lifted spirit I took a trip to San Cristobal de las Casas for the weekend to see what the folks there had in store for their celebrations.  You may remember from my last post, I spoke very highly of this pretty town in the mountains and, as I had a visitor from England, I thought it the best option to make a good impression.  I arrived late on Friday night, after a week of prepping for Halloween and Dia Los Muertos activities in both the schools I work at (It turns out the Mexican cost of living is higher than that of Thailand, and the salary is lower.)  I fell exhausted onto my bunk bed in the hostel, not even a nightcap to be had, and woke on Saturday, rested and ready for the weekend.  After some exploring in the bustling market we had a chocolate break in a little chocolate café on the main street where we people-watched and plotted our next move.  We headed in the direction of one of the big churches, where we were met by a lady reading tarot cards.  I couldn’t resist, I handed over 100 pesos for a rather generic reading advising me I had a decision and, although I should look at all my options, I already have the tools I need to make the right choice.  So with that golden nugget in my back pocket, where my 100 pesos could have been, I trundled on up the several million (or so it felt) steps to a brightly painted church overlooking the town.  I basked in the golden afternoon sun as I heaved breath back into my lungs.  I need to get back to the gym; I admit I’ve been milking the ‘no exercise’ rule given to Chikungunya convalescents for long enough now.

The day jaunted along in the beautiful glow of the sun which made everything so much more iridescent, the shiny gold of a VW beetle contrasted with a dark wall of graffiti, and the brightly coloured shops and churches.  It all inspired so much relaxation.  The day evolved to night as we sipped another glass of wine, and while the marimba bands serenaded us as we washed down the delicious tapas, we decided we were far too settled in and cosy to go back to our room to refresh.  By now I was far too relaxed … 

While I chatted and sipped beer, my 8 year old leather handbag from a previous trip to Hong Kong was sitting beside me on a chair.  In the blink of an eye it got swept away by an inconsiderate opportunist, along with my market purchases, my Kindle Fire, my crappy old smartphone, my sunglasses, and my wallet with my driving license and the rest of my weekend’s funds.  The money I can earn again, the phone was so old it had cataracts, the sunglasses were cheap old things from Tesco Lotus, and the driving license is replaceable, although it will cost me the equivalent of 2 evenings at my second job to replace.  What knocked me most about this whole ordeal was losing my tablet.  I know what you’re thinking; first world problems, right?  I suppose you could call losing the thing that kept me connected to my family while I am living 5,000 miles away (already feeling homesick) a first world problem but, for me in that moment it was a kick in the guts and a rip in my heart.  I acknowledge now that this is rather an overreaction; however I’ve not had something stolen from me since my coat was taken from the cloakroom in first year (7^th grade), so you can imagine my disgust and lack of experience with this sort of thing.  Anyway, over the next week I decided that it was probably best to just forget it, as it’s been implied that there’s nothing anyone (one would normally turn to) can do in these situations, even if they cared enough to bother with the paperwork, so I admitted defeat and bought the cheapest Samsung tab I could find and loaded it with all sorts of security software that will allow me to shut it down and shut out a venomous klepto should I fall victim again. A word to the wise: keep all personal information off mobile devices.  Just think of what the sticky fingered feckers have access to once they hack in.

My premature departure from San Cris, and it’s continuing Dia Los Muertos festivities, on Sunday was with nauseous feelings, and I’m not talking about the wine from the previous night.  I just wanted out of there.  I was also saddened that the short time my friend had with me had been shortened further, having to comfort me while I mourned a device.  I was so frustrated that the handbag incident had threatened to ruin my view of such a wonderful place, a place that I had heard so much about in my research into living in Chiapas, and once again I felt intense anger at that being taken away from me too.  

However, positive thoughts will prevail.  I intend on going back to San Cristobal to give it a chance to redeem itself, with my head held high and my handbag superglued to my shoulder.

Images: Sinéad Millea.