Medical tourism and the lurking danger in lovely Guatemala

Posted on by December 10, 2012

     This kind of thing fascinates me: two shoeless vagabonds with a tablet computer. I see barefoot travelers all the time in Guatemala, but this is a very bad idea. There is so much broken glass on the streets and animal manure of various species that you become a prime hookworm candidate. My carefree shoeless days ended the first time I stepped on glass and had stitches in my foot. I was only nine years old at the time, but still.


     So my friend had a bump on her back. When we were hitchhiking in Mexico we were sometimes thrown around in the backs of trucks as if in a blender as our drivers raced through the hills of Chiapas, and the bump became The Bump, then The Infected Bump, then The Don’t Let Me Die Here Because I Don’t Want Kent to Get My Kindle with Free Global 3G Bump, forcing her to engage in some medical tourism in Guatemala.
     Enter Dr. Manuel Samayoa on 3a Calle Poniente #13 near 6a Avenida Norte in Antigua. He came recommended when we posted on a CouchSurfing group asking for local doctors. (The power of CouchSurfing!) Once at his clinic we were a little taken aback by the armed guard and a metal gate as extra layers of security. A Muzak, salsa-lite version of “Stairway to Heaven” drifting weightlessly above the waiting room could arguably be called a third layer of security, but it didn’t deter us.
     The good doctor charged 135 quetzales (7.89 quetzales = US$1) for a consultation and then 225 for some injections. We also consulted a doctor in San Pedro, Lake Atitlan for 150 quetzales and another doctor in Antigua for 200 quetzales plus 300 more if we had let her cut the infection out, but at the last minute she discovered she didn’t have anesthesia. In the meantime we discovered Dr. Samayoa, who said it would have been a mistake to try and remove it so soon.
     If you want cheap consultations, head to Comitan in Chiapas, Mexico where we saw a doctor advertising them for only 25 pesos (US$2). I wish I had taken a photo of a dentist office I saw that had scribbled the prices for all their procedures on a lime green sheet of construction paper and haphazardly taped it to the desk.

     The ever-gregarious Dr. Manuel Samayoa, demonstrating…something. I have some fabulously disgusting photos of the wound, but don’t have permission to publish them. Friendship: it’s a double-edged sword.


Hey, is Guatemala dangerous?
     Way back in the 1990s, Antigua was a well-known place to get pickpocketed on the buses arriving from Guatemala City. The bus would pull in to town and while everyone was trying to disembark, gangs of touts/scum would push back and climb on to try and hustle the foreigners into staying at their hotel. It was a zoo, and in the madness of trying to extricate yourself from the scrum, pockets were emptied.
     In Mexico, other than the worldwide precaution of being careful at night, I never had the feeling of fear as I declared a few posts ago. In Guatemala, one is always reminded of lurking danger. There hardly exists a mountain, volcano or hill where you aren’t warned against thieves. In Antigua there is a little hill behind the town that makes a great viewpoint, Cerro de la Cruz, and it looks so accessible, but the risk of getting mugged is such that twice a day there are police escorts to walk up to it in addition to several police checkpoints along the way.
     I met an Aussie girl who left her hostel in Quetzaltenango at 6am to catch a bus only to be confronted by an armed robber right outside her hostel door to the street, relieving her of her passport, credit cards and some cash. The appearance that it was an inside job makes it more distressing. I’d name the hostel but she wasn’t 100% sure what it’s called.
     Even in peace and love San Marcos on Lake Atitlan, we were warned about staying in a particular area to the northwest of the dock near the water. San Marcos! I thought the worst thing that would happen there is to die from incense smoke inhalation, but no.
     Antigua town is so beautiful and atmospheric it feels paradisiacal, but then I noticed the doctor’s armed guard and even a simple bakery has metal bars to keep the bad people out, and these are on a busy streets close to the main square.
     All of that said, in the country with the eighth highest murder rate in the world (Honduras is number one by far), I feel fine and don’t hesitate to recommend it to anyone. Then again, I like almost everywhere and recommend everything to anyone at any time. Next up is the hectic capital, Guatemala City, which is said to be the last word in danger in Guatemala, so we have that to look forward to.

     The cathedral on Antigua’s main square.


     Speaking of a lack of personal safety, we hitchhiked from San Pedro, Lake Atitlan to Antigua in four easy rides. I was thankful for this as the very steep, ragged road up from the lake would be most unpleasant in the back of a stuffed chicken bus even though the lake views are—I’m sorry, I have to use a glossy travel magazine word—STUNNING!
     The bus is probably very cheap. I don’t know what it costs, but I was happy to avoid it. Many travelers take shuttle buses, which I also wanted to avoid. A “shuttle" in local parlance is a van stuffed full of foreigners with their backpacks on the roof, paying a premium to be picked up from your hostel and driven directly to your destination. I’m pleased hitchhiking exists as an alternative, though I do feel a pang of guilt that this way of traveling doesn’t work for locals.
     We were fortunate to get a ride inside a very nice, new truck up the hill. How did we get a very nice truck to stop for us? By waiting for a very nice truck to pass before we stuck our thumbs out! Despite all appearances, I am concerned about my personal safety and have it in my head that the more expensive the vehicle, the less likely I will have trouble from the driver. Also, it is one thing for me to hitchhike, but if a female is with me, I feel responsible for her welfare. After 1000+ km here and in Mexico, so far, so good.

     Everyone must be completely sick of the photos of people who pick us up hitchhiking, their happy faces, the pure, undiluted love that emanates from their smiles, but it is so incredible and I am so grateful that anyone picks us up, I can’t help it. Cut me some slack.


     I forgot to mention that I made a day-trip to Chichicastenango, famous for it’s weekly market, but I don’t recommend it unless you are a hardcore shopper. This converted gymnasium was the highlight for me.


     Blue corn



Practical information:
     I’ve walked Antigua’s eight avenues and eight streets countless times for more than a week and have been lost an embarrassing amount. A while ago I was mentioned in the New York Times travel blog when they asked people what city confuses them and I said Antigua. I still say Antigua. It’s laid out on a grid, but every street looks the same due to a lack of aggressive signage and there is a mountain or volcano in the distance down every block which doesn’t help with orientation. I walked by a McDonald’s and a Burger King without realizing it. Not many places where you can say that.

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The best restaurant and the wurst hotel in Antigua, Guatemala

Posted on by December 3, 2012

     Chicken, broccoli, rice, potatoes, radishes, and a drink of pineapple juice with chunks of pineapple.


     I was going to write about medical tourism in Guatemala next, but my friend’s maladies haven’t fully played out, so in the meantime I need to share gastronomic and lodging secrets—another free gift from The Dromomaniac! Thank me later.
     The food find of the city is a breakfast and lunch place called Rincon Tipico (Typical Corner) on 3a Avenida Sur #3 between 5a and 6a Calle, or from the southeast corner of the main square, it’s one block east and one and a half blocks south. You know you’re near when you see billows of smoke pouring out on to the street which makes you pause for a moment to wonder if the place is on fire. You have to enter evacuation-style through a haze of smoke and when you get through and stop coughing you notice the cause of this smoke: a girl standing with a hair dryer in her hand, blowing on the grill. (Finally, I’m qualified for a job. I wonder how that would look on my resume: “Rincon Tipico Restaurant, Lead Hair Dryer, 2012-2013.”)
     It’s not really a restaurant, but a temporary set-up in a garage. There isn’t a menu either. Every day there is a selection of roast chicken, beef or pork, longaniza or chorizo (both are sausages, but the chorizo I’ve seen on this trip is much nicer than the mysterious gooey stuff found in American supermarkets) and sometimes a surprise or two, plus several side dishes and a drink. The total for this feast is 20 quetzales (7.88 quetzales = US$1) making it the Holy Mother of All Deals Beyond All Reasonable Doubt. It isn’t just cheap, though. I wouldn’t eat it every day just because it is a great deal. OK, that’s a lie, I totally would, but really, it is full-on delicious.

     It’s the most uninviting pic ever, I know, but this is the view from the street when it doesn’t appear to be a five-alarm fire.


     Hair Dryer Woman—I’m coming after your job!—with big pots of the side dishes behind her.


     Fresh homemade tortillas, found everywhere in Guatemala, though these are bigger and thicker than normal, which are still bigger and thicker than in Mexico. In Mexico tortillas were nice and thin. Why is it impossible to find such thin tortillas in USA?


     Longaniza is a sausage that is usually fatty and spicy, but here tastes more like a lean herb sausage.


     The pork adobado, my favorite, with all of this for lunch means you aren’t hungry for dinner.


     A vegetarian meal is only 15 quetzales. The muddy-looking liquid in the cup is horchata, a rice and cinnamon drink, very nice and smooth unlike most horchatas I’ve had.


     In the evenings when Rincon Tipico is closed, I often go see an old woman named Juana who sells tamales called chuchitos on the corner of La Merced Church north of the center. 5 quetzales. Don’t be shy about yelling your order as she’s very hard of hearing.


     The best hotel is above a German sausage place called Wurst Eck (Sausage Corner), but there are only a couple of rooms and it appears to usually be full. In fact, I am reticent to say more about it because I don’t want someone among my vast, vast readership to steal it from me. It’s US$250 if you stay a month or we pay 100 quetzales ($12.65) a night for the cleanest, most modern place I’ve stayed on this trip very near Parque Central and yet quiet. That’s all I’m going to say. Shhhhhh…..

Practical information:
     Dealing with money is surprisingly full of hassle in Antigua. There are ATMs on the north side of the main square, Parque Central, that steal your code and clean out your bank account. It seems to be a well-known secret that no one can do anything about. (Do a search for “atm scam antigua guatemala” and see the results.) I use the yellow 5B ATM machines and have yet to have a problem, but I check my bank account online every day to be sure.
     If you bring cash, bring US dollars, and if you bring US dollars, bring them in denominations of at least $50 or no bank will take them except for one. I asked a couple of banks what is so special about $50 bills and they say “politicas” (policies). When I tell them that that’s not a reason, they shrug their shoulders. The only bank that will change any denomination of US dollars is BAC on the west side of the Parque Central, but there is a $100 minimum, the process takes a bit of time and they charge $1.50 commission.
     If you want to hang out in front of Yellow House Hostel and suck some wifi, the code is 7B53F82AC3—but you didn’t hear it from me.
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High Hippy Season on Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

Posted on by December 1, 2012

     I bought some empanadas from a couple of young girls wandering around selling them to foreigners. I asked to take a photo of them in their beautiful clothes, and they said I could do so only if I would buy them a box of sugary, corn-flavored western cereal, something like Corn Pops. I asked why they wanted it, and the older girl said, “We want to be fat.”
     Oh.

     Hidden under all these toppings is a potato empanada, sold on the street for 5 pesos (7.8 pesos = US$1)


     These are the women in San Pedro, Lake Atitlan, who make the empanadas along with tostadas. Look at the pretty clothes they are wearing. Such amazing, beautiful ensembles are the rule rather than the exception for girls and women of all ages. It’s one of the delights of Guatemala. I did once spot a girl wearing a traditional woven skirt but with a simple t-shirt that had in large block letters, ‘HOTTIE’.


     Lake Atitlan! This is one of the jewels of Guatemala, no one will deny, but if you don’t have much time, you could make the mistake of spending it in Panajachel, the transport hub. It’s not ugly, but the main drag is turning into a wannabe Khao San Road full of tchotchke crap, overpriced shops, dozens and dozens of market stalls selling the same thing, and most emblematic, a restaurant called Maya-Vietnam Fusion. Need I say more?
     The thing to do is to visit the smaller villages around the lake. I only visited two, San Marcos and San Pedro. Wikitravel.org, a website I am slowly losing faith in, made both sound awful, but they aren’t bad at all. San Marcos was said to be “less party, more meditation" than hedonistic San Pedro, but it just means a different breed of hippy. (I asked a guy running a hostel if there was a “hippy season” and he said there sure was, starting in September. September is also the beginning of hurricane season, which means it’s the cheapest time of year with the fewest travelers around.) I did feel like the only heathen scum in San Marcos, the only one not into the holy trinity of yoga, massage, and meditation. I can’t even juggle and I left my drum at home.
     We stayed in a very beautiful rustic place called Hotel La Paz, getting a big discount because the owner and my friend knew someone in common in Hawaii. Just the mention of the Big Island melted the owner into a deep reminiscence about its good vibe, but I broke the bonhomie when I asked if he had wifi, which didn’t go over well. It’s bad enough I am turning into one of those travelers I used to ridicule for being addicted to wifi, and here I was, ruining the poor guy’s moment.
     The La Paz owner’s name is Benjamin, which sounds very evocative when pronounced in Spanish. Everything sounds better in Spanish, and names in particular have a flair in Spanish that English doesn’t have. Doesn’t Giovani dos Santos (a Mexican soccer player) sound like a name you’d want to have? Of course! It has panache. Translated into English, Giovani dos Santos is Johnny Two Saints which sounds like a Jersey thug. Take Spaniard Antonio Banderas, the actor. Classic name. Senor Rico Suave! The English equivalent, Tony Flags, sounds like a 1970’s British TV host with wide lapels.

     The farther away you are from San Pedro, the better it looks.


     Israelis are in San Pedro in full force. Actually, on the road you either see Israelis in full force or not at all, and in San Pedro they have found a solid base. There is an Israeli-owned hostel and bar called Zoola that was promising a “420 Sacred Herbalife Ceremony” the day we left, giving me no time to counter with a 420 Sacred Amway Ceremony. I checked Zoola out anyway and it is very nicely designed, but it seems that all the foreigners who built next to the lake built too low. Water levels are rising and the pollution in the lake gives off a rancid smell. Mayans have always built their homes on much higher ground, I read. This may be due to cyclical water levels every 50-75 years or just some better foresight as natural drainage points are clogged with garbage and algae.
     Some people in San Pedro are poised to head up to Palenque, Mexico for a Rainbow Gathering next month that will culminate on December 21, the supposed end of the world in the Mayan calendar, which means that in December there are two bad reasons to open a laundry business in Palenque.

     San Pedro Laundry: we can even make hippies smell good!


     The public boats that ply the waters of Lake Atitlan.


     Osama bin Laden explosives sold on a table on the street.


     Rambo firecrackers sold on a table on the street.


     A Guatemalan construction technique. Inside the plastic bottles are plastic bags. It’s not the best way to dispose of this stuff, but otherwise people throw their garbage anywhere, even in eco-conscious San Marcos.


     Minimalist shoe cobbler


Further Reading with More Coherence Than Anything I’ve Written:
     The New York Times has this interesting first person narrative of a woman trying to save her house from Lake Atitlan’s the rising waters. Time Magazine reports on how the lake got to its present messed-up state. This is a stranger-than-fiction Guatemalan murder mystery by the great David Grann in the New Yorker.

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Hitchhiking from Mexico to Guatemala; the journey is the destination

Posted on by November 22, 2012

     The journey is the destination. So deep! Go ahead, I can wait while you write that down. As corny as that sounds, though, it’s true. Or, put another way, I can say that the the buzz of being in another country is greatly accentuated by the successful adventure of having hitchhiked such a long distance to get there. It is one of the pinnacles of the travel experience for me.

     Coolest cowboy boots ever! Comitan, Chiapas, Mexico.


     This is interesting. Two ads with the same phone number, one from a woman named Venus offering erotic Latin massage—it would be funny if she massaged you while speaking Latin—and the other from a Solei looking for work with a foreigner. I do need someone to redesign my website…


     I was a little on the fence about trying to hitchhike from Mexico to the border, and we had our first lengthy wait of about 45 minutes trying to get out of Comitan, but eventually a family in a pickup truck scooted us out of town and then a young guy took us all the way to near the border in Ciudad Cuauhtemoc where Mexican immigration is. He had worked in Kansas and Missouri, but was deported and stuck here, away from a child he left behind in America. He has two other children in Chiapas, making his life a bit complicated. He had a great story and volunteered all kinds of details, but I found it hard to follow as the Spanish spoken in Chiapas is something else.
     He was on his way to the border on a weekly trip just to shop, as he said many Mexicans do since nearly everything is cheaper in Guatemala, but Guatemalans sometimes come to Mexico just to shop at Walmart. (It’s a weird phenomenon to see gigantic Walmarts in Mexico, which is heavily saturated with them, having sprouted up more quickly than would normally be allowed due to some heavy bribery that is more of a scandal in America than here.)
     We got our passports stamped and then luckily hitchhiked the hot, uphill 3km in the no-man’s land between the two countries. The funny thing about the border is that anyone could have walked through both borders without getting a stamp in your passport. The immigration offices are off to the side and no one seems to notice if you go in to get your stamp or not. No one checks.

     Guatemala needs to work on their passport stamp.


     Guatemala! GUATEMALA!!! Technically this is my third time in Guatemala. I made a hitchhiking trip through Central America in 2006 that is documented on my old website with some quaint, old, hand-coded HTML (See? I really do need someone like Venus/Solei to redesign my website), but I blew through northern Guatemala. My previous visit was in the 1990s, so it feels like a new country.
     The border sits on a ridge with a very beautiful panorama of a long, green valley and dramatic volcanoes, but the village itself is an ugly mess that we quickly walked through. A chicken bus sat on the edge of town, promising a cramped, bumpy, five-hour-plus ride to Quetzaltenango (also called Xela), though it’s only 162km or 100 miles. Chicken buses are old American school buses that are now used as public transport in Guatemala. I am a big school-bus-spotter fan, always trying to identify the school district where the buses come from or getting close to try and read under the paint. The other interesting thing is that “chicken bus” has become a Spanish phrase. It seems strange to ask, “Donde esta el chicken bus para Xela?”
     We walked by the confused hustlers on the bus and instead hitchhiked, waiting a short time to get two rides all the way to Xela. Since the sun was setting we had only one more chance to hitchhike and we got one last long ride with a guy who drove an SUV without a rear window, meaning the exhaust circulated back into the car. I don’t know how the driver was unaffected by this. I was dying from the fumes, my eyes watering even with my side window open. He left us a nauseous, woozy mess at the highway above Solola and Panajachel where we took two quick chicken buses down to Lake Atitlan.

     After about a 20 minute wait, this guy drove us straight from San Cristobal de las Casas to Comitan’s main square about 85km away.


     Our ride from Huehuetenango to Quetzaltenango. I go overboard on photos of people who pick us up hitchhiking because I am always surprised to have such good luck.


     Panajachel is pretty unattractive, and the hodge-podge of junky, loud restaurants on the lake is very unappealing, but views like this make up for it—barely. I think the secret is to go to the smaller villages around Lake Atitlan, which I intend to do next.


     Love in an alley in Panajachel.


Practical Information
     When a guy from a public bus or a public boat (for Lake Atitlan) is running to you, eager to have you on board, you know his motivation is to overcharge you.
     It’s not fun driving in Mexico and Guatemala when you aren’t on the highway because of the endless, often poorly-marked speed bumps. It’s like driving in outback Australia where you have it in your mind that it will be a leisurely drive, but instead you have to constantly focus on the road because of dead tire remnants or dead kangaroos.

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An uninformed American look at Mexican food

Posted on by November 17, 2012

     I’m embarrassed talking about Mexican food because every time I am in Mexico I realize I hardly know a damn thing about it even though I always claim to love what I know to be “Mexican food”. Like traveling in Mexico, real Mexican food is a revelation, and on both counts I feel like I have barely scratched the surface.
     Before I left on this trip a Mexican friend implored me to not eat street food as it could be dangerously unsanitary, but I think I ate street food more often than not. It looked safe and clean and was almost always delicious. In a situation where food stalls abound, the friend I am traveling with says to always go with the oldest and presumably most experienced person cooking as she will have “command of her kitchen”, she says, so I look for the woman who has the best posture and stands proudly. I never got sick in one month of being in Mexico, though my friend had a bout of food poisoning that wrecked her for two days. She suspects it was some cut watermelon that did her in.

     A common meal: red mole chicken, rice, black beans, a tall stack of tortillas and a glass of horchata off-camera in San Cristobal de las Casas, 30 pesos (13 pesos=US$1)


     Blue corn sope in Puebla, 5 pesos. Blue corn anything always made me stop in my tracks, but it wasn’t commonly seen. A variation of this (with black beans, cheese, and salsa) in yellow corn form is always something I seek out.


     Tostadas topped with beets and carrots, San Cristobal de las Casas, 2 for 5 pesos.


     Pozole in Huatulco, Oaxaca, 30 pesos.


     Amaranth and chocolate snack, 6 pesos. Big fan.


     Something I didn’t eat, but appreciated the humor. Fuuuuuuuud!


     Day of the Dead bread, Oaxaca


     Dried (pasilla?) chiles in Tlacolula, Oaxaca. In Mexican markets I love to bury my face in the smells of all the different kinds of chiles until security is called.


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Is Mexico safe to travel?

Posted on by November 28, 2012

     You’ve been warned.


Short mailbag question from Shane in USA:
     “Hate to ask this question, but really curious…cartel issues? Mexico has such a bad rap right now.”
     Since Mexico is often in the news for all the wrong reasons, a lot of people must be wondering how safe Mexico is to travel. I like to think I’m not naive, but on the ground here I don’t see where the intersection of drug violence and tourism is. It may be because of my route, which has been southward from Mexico City: Puebla-Oaxaca-Chiapas. All I can say is that in one month of traveling, I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary. In fact, if you had never heard of all the drug cartel violence before you came, you wouldn’t know about it from being here. I’ve yet to hear a Mexican bring it up in conversation either, though they understandably might not be eager to discuss it.
     I also haven’t heard of any anecdotal crime against travelers while here. However, it looks like the Mexico/Guatemala border is next, and it has me a little spooked. There are two documentaries about the “Death Train”, a freight train that Central Americans migrants take to cross the border to head north. Here are two interesting short clips about it, one is from Current TV which I’ve seen, and the other is from HBO, which I have not. Both are chilling. I don’t plan on using the Tapachula border to enter Guatemala, but I’m keeping my guard up. Central American border crossings aren’t a lot of fun in the best of times.

     I’ve had no trouble at all thus far but I wouldn’t suggest Mexico is as safe as, say, Japan. I have been frequently warned about running around at night, but that is a normal precaution for traveling anywhere, along with it being poor form to yell to your friend across the room, “I’ve only got $100 bills! Where can I get change?” and “Hey! What’s the most I can take out of an ATM machine at one time?”
     I’d be very interested in hearing other travelers’ experiences in Mexico if you have one to share.
     Since we are talking about safety, this gives me an opportunity to show these two photos and one short video of unusual stoplights in Mexico. Yes, I am the only travel freak who takes photos of stoplights in other countries. Mexico is also stoplight friendly at immigration in airports. When you pick up your bag from the carousel and go to customs, there is a stoplight. You press the button and if it is green, you pass, and if it is red, they open your bags.

     Uno? Stoplight in San Cristobal de las Casas


     Puerto Escondido stoplight. That’s a lot of red.


Practical tips:
     Have you ever had a breakfast in a hostel that was any good? I can’t remember any outside of a few in Europe. If a hostel price includes breakfast, I always ask if the price is lower without it. I’m not a coffee drinker, though, which I know has an almost-immeasurable value for some travelers.
     I ran into Arthur Austria and Max Quebec again in San Cristobal and Max told me a great tip: if you want to know if any underground stuff is going on in town, visit the local skate shop; they’ll know.

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Hitchhiking in southern Mexico—piece of cake!

Posted on by November 28, 2012

     Quick note: if you follow my Facebook page—and please do!—Facebook has changed the way you receive news from me. To ensure that you see me in your page, put your mouse on the “Liked” button and then click both the “Get Notifications” and “Show in News Feed” options. Thanks!

     Sign of the Month in Huatulco, Oaxaca.


     It is a huge accomplishment to hitchhike the 500km from Huatulco, Oaxaca—with a late, hot, 9am start—and arrive in Tuxtla Gutierrez, Chiapas at 6pm just as the sun was setting. The fact that I was hitchhiking with a woman makes it hard for me to know if I could have had similar success on my own. I think I could, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fast. I came up with the idea for safety that she be last in and first out of any car we got into, but that’s hard to choreograph when getting into the back of a truck with our backpacks. I was also Svengali-like meticulous about her presentation, but couldn’t decide whether to dress her up in a bikini or a burka and went with something in-between.
     Traffic is very light on the coast, and the path we took wasn’t common, but we got rides much more quickly than I would have guessed. I was shocked, actually. I had asked on Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree forum and in CouchSurfing groups about the possibility of hitchhiking in Mexico and got a very tepid response. The rides came so fast we didn’t have time while waiting on the side of the road to fully debate what Nicolas Cage’s last good movie was before “Kick-ass”. (I say Valley Girl.)

     Hitchhiking is always real traveling. Not that other forms aren’t, but there isn’t a moment in hitchhiking where you don’t feel a heightened sense of adventure, never knowing what awaits. I wish America was more hitchhiker-friendly, and am amazed when I hear of foreigners having success there. In America it’s hard to stand out as a traveler/backpacker on the side of the road as opposed to a traveler/homeless-guy-who-might-have-just-soiled-himself, while here in Mexico with my shorts, t-shirt, big nose, height, etc., I look foreign. (The New York Times just weighed in on the benefits of hitchhiking, to my surprise.)
     Quick tangent: I know using the term “America” freaks some people out since all of us in this hemisphere are “Americans”, but it’s undeniably part of the common vernacular—as are “Yanqui” and “gringo”—and besides, the official name for Mexico is the United Mexican States, so saying “United States” can apply to both.

     This was our ride going between Mazunte and Bahias de Huatulco two days before. It was an honor to be picked up by this hitchhiking legend in his VW Thing, a man who had hitchhiked across USA, the Middle East, and Africa. Unknown Mexican Traveler Supreme, I salute you.


     Our first ride. This man said he was going ‘only’ for an hour, but drove so fast it must have been equal to two normal hours.


     This couple was also in a hurry and I learned a new Spanish word, chango, when we came across our umpteenth surprise speed bump on the road and skidded to avoid bottoming out. Pretty sure it isn’t a good word.


     Ride #4, a funny guy who used to live in America. It’s strange: if I say I am from California, Mexicans will sometimes ask, ‘Fresno’? If I answer ‘Near Madera’, they nod knowingly. Everyone knows Madera, a heretofore woebegone place I have a newfound respect for. Mexicans know the Central Valley better than most Californians.


     The sixth and last guy who stopped for us didn’t open his window or door to communicate with me, making me shout our destination. Was he scared of us? I don’t know, but I was petrified of his driving. We tried our best to hold on in the back of his truck. We felt like tossed rag dolls as he raced like hell to Tuxtla Gutierrez. Once there, feeling victorious, we got some snacks and took a bus to go the last 50km east to San Cristobal de las Casas, a colonial gem high in the mountains at 2200 meters or almost 7000 feet, or, put another way, absolutely FREEZING at night.

     In San Cristobal de las Casas at a Black Panther/Zapatista art exhibition I ran into three Canadians who are driving their 1989 VW Golf through Mexico to Guatemala when they broke down in Tuxtla Gutierrez. Their car is a wreck, breaking down everywhere on the trip. The mechanic in Tuxtla felt sorry enough to allow them to pitch their tent and camp on top of the auto repair shop for a few days while he tries to fix it.
     I love stories like this because I wonder if the opposite would be true, if three Mexicans driving a jalopy in California threw a rod in Fresno (an overgrown cow-town the same size as Tuxtla), would they be invited to pitch a tent on top of the repair shop? Doubt it.

     In San Cristobal de las Casas men, women and children are constantly approaching you to buy trinkets and whatnot, but it’s only a 1.5 on the hassle scale (0 being Norway and 10 being Fez, Morocco or Luxor, Egypt). Besides, the women are quite a sight in their traditional clothes and pretty, expressive faces. I would never have guessed some of the things sold here on the streets, namely macadamia nuts, strawberries, and disco balls.

     Just your average postcard-cheese-pearl-safari photo shop in San Cristobal de las Casas.


Practical information: (13 pesos = US$1)
     The best value for money place on my trip thus far has been Posada del Carmen on Palo Verde 307 in La Crucecita, Bahias de Huatulco. (Don’t confuse Bahias de Huatulco with the inland town of Santa Maria Huatulco.) 200 pesos for a big double room, TV, wifi, a toilet seat (you can’t ever assume there is one) and a quiet location. La Crucecita was an underrated little town, a nice antidote to the limited options of Mazunte.

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A tale of two beaches, Mazunte and Zipolite

Posted on by November 19, 2012

     The two guys here, Arthur from Austria and Max from Quebec, I met in a hostel in Oaxaca, and found them both in Mazunte. Stefanie in the middle runs a nice little bakery in town called Panaderia La Primera. It turns out that Arthur and Stefanie are not only from the same town, Innsbruck, but they went to the same primary school together, they discovered. Small world, but let’s not be distracted from these chocolatines in the front of the basket (10 pesos each. 12.5 pesos = US$1). Mind-blowingly good. The pan de relleno in the back is tops, too.


Mazunte
     I’m a shade less than an hour east of Puerto Escondido in the village of Mazunte. Took the bus to get near here and then twice I hitchhiked short distances with a female friend I am traveling with, both very easily. Funny how it is easier to hitchhike with a girl. Who knew?
     It is veeeery nice to swim on this coast. The water is a perfect temperature, it seems clean enough, the beaches are as clean as could be hoped for and Mazunte has some shady spots on the beach if skin cancer isn’t your goal. Most places are very quiet as it is low season for reasons I haven’t figured out yet. There’s a nice mix of locals, travelers, hippies, Austrians and low-key restaurants.

     This kills me. A love donation—but it’s suggested you pay a minimum of 30 pesos and no one gets hurt.


     I was born and raised in California and even I had to have ‘past life regressions’ explained to me.


     Come on baby light my…FIRE! This isn’t my paunch, but if I maintain my pace of chicken mole tamales, I’m headed that way.


     There was not one but two of these cool Tortilleria VW Bugs zooming around town.


     On a dusty corner lot I got talking to a 20-year-old guy working at a roasted chicken place. He was planning on heading to work in the tobacco fields of North Carolina with his brother, who is already there. His brother claims that he can make $100 a day working 14-hour days in the fields, seven days a week.
     His plan is to pay a coyote (human trafficker) in Puerto Escondido a love donation of 25,000 pesos ($2000) to get him across the border and he thinks he needs only two years to save enough money to build a nice house here for his wife and son.
     He seemed to be aware of the risk and the danger of trying to cross the border. He said it was common for people in the area to go to America because wages were simply too low in Mexico to support a family. The increase in tourism along the coast didn’t seem to affect wages. (What does?)
     He earns 100 pesos a day working at the roast chicken place. A better job might pay 200 pesos a day, he said, but it was still impossible to save enough money to have something better than a shack built of sticks with a linoleum floor if he didn’t go to America.

     Everywhere I’ve been in Mexico are tons of job openings. I’ve never seen anything like it.


     I always wonder about the pull of Mexicans northward. It’s always said that the sense of family is very strong in Mexico, and yet it is common that young, able-bodied men and women go off to America to try and make better money. There is pressure on these migrants to support their large extended families which are the result of a lack of family planning options. This in turn is due to the heavy presence of the Catholic church in Mexican society especially as it relates to abortion. I read that the municipality of Mexico City and the country of Uruguay are the only places in all of Latin America where it is legal to have an abortion. (Uruguay just changed its laws a few weeks ago.)
     Mexico seemingly has so much and Mexicans are hard-working people, so why is it relatively poor? One reason has to be the failure of the government which is lazily reliant on foreign remittances that take the place of a functioning economy.
     I haven’t thought it all out yet. Let’s move on to nearly-dead hippies.

Zipolite
     Less than 10km east along the coast from Mazunte is the village of Zipolite, which is an indigenous Zapotec word meaning “Beach of the Dead”. How quaint! It is famous for being a hippy hangout, but the hippies are a ragged, scraggly, sickly-looking bunch. They appear ready to die at any minute, which would be great as I need a new backpack, but they give me the skeeves. I have no problem with my shanti-shanti travel brethren per se, but something is decidedly unappealing about them.

     The Lonely Planet page for Zipolite is schizo. It is like they are describing two different places. Come for the beauty, the wonderful surroundings, the magic—but live in fear of the violent attacks, robberies and murders by a bloodthirsty gang, all in a little village of 1100 people! Incredible.


     I went to South Central—I mean, Zipolite—as a day trip from Mazunte and survived.


Practical information:
     Accommodation in Mazunte is tricky business. We stayed in the Hospedaje El Mazunte across from the Turtle Center for 200 pesos. I’m sure they will get wifi before they get seats for the toilet. Options in Mazunte are spread out and it is very hot to walk all over with your backpack, so I say pick any hovel for 100 pesos or less if you are alone and then check other places out later. What’s that? You will only be in town a couple of days? Pffft. Everyone says that, and then they have Stefanie’s chocolatines.

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Lazy days in Puerto Escondido, Mexico

Posted on by November 7, 2012

     Seen in a health food store, this translates as ‘Wild Immediately’. Amazing graphic on the box, eh? Should I change my logo on the top of the page from my feet to this?


     It’s a thoroughly unenjoyable seven-hour ride from Oaxaca over the mountains south to Puerto Escondido. The views are great, but it’s impossible to enjoy them through tinted windows as you cross over your 5000th speed bump and the driver is careening around every corner at 3 Gs. The only thing worse would have been to do the journey at night, but if you want to save money on accommodation, that’s what you do as a backpacker.
     Puerto Escondido is nicer than I expected. I thought it would be like a poor man’s version of Puerto Vallarta or Cancun, but it has a charm that made me want to linger a few days longer, or it was the evening sea breezes that hypnotized me. Not many others felt the same way as I saw few other travelers, but it’s super-low season and very quiet. The best thing I did was swim and laze by the beautiful bay at nearby Playa Carrizalillo.

     Mexicans can’t always grasp ‘Kent’ so I use other names when they ask. Chicharito is a famous soccer player.


     Overlooking Playa Carrizalillo


     Playa Carrizalillo. Fantastic water temperature, too.


     The costa is not so hermosa for everybody.


     The main drag in Puerto Escondido. Double nonvehicle rolled!

Practical information:
     Simple but very true advice: if you have a choice, always go with an older bus driver over a young one.
     The Hostal Monte Cassino just above Playa Principal is 240 pesos for two or cheaper if you pay for a few days in advance. All the beautiful people stay there. I ate street food every day and almost every meal. By doing so, meals averaged about 25-30 pesos.

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Oaxaca this way to southern Mexico!

Posted on by October 30, 2012

     Oaxaca, which lies almost 500km southeast of Mexico City, is the capital of Oaxaca state. The part of central California I call home (for lack of a better place) has many Mixtecs, an ethnic group from the northwest part of Oaxaca state who speak neither Spanish nor English. The New York Times wrote a story about the Mixtecs and how they make do in Madera County. My favorite part of the article is where DVDs of dances back home are sold so they can see who is dancing with whom! I’ve already met a policeman here who worked in the fields in Madera. Imagine that transition.
     Day of the Dead, which peaks on November 2, is an especially big holiday in Oaxaca, but a full ten days before it felt like the party was already in full swing with fireworks all day and night. Who lights fireworks in the daytime? I asked one guy running streamers through a large spinning wheel in preparation for one night’s show what the event was, but it hardly seemed to matter; something’s going on every night. Not just musicians but complete bands can be heard all over town, and there are a ton of people roaming around selling necessities like fried grasshoppers and plastic spiders. Great atmosphere.

     Heavy fireworks off the church in the main square, the zocalo, in Oaxaca. The pigeons are so used to the nonstop barrage of fireworks and noise in Oaxaca that they hardly budged during this. I think I heard one pigeon say to another, ‘Meh.’


     A ‘semi-new’ typewriter for US$440? The Mayans are right: the world is ending.


     The thing to do in Oaxaca that few do is to visit the surrounding towns on their weekly market days. I loved it. I must have set a backpacker record by going to four: Etla, Zaachila, Ocotlan and Tlacolula. (Try saying “Tlacolula” and “Oaxaca” ten times fast.) It’s a shame I saw only a smattering of other travelers as this is why I am interested in Oaxaca to begin with: to see everyone come from their villages into town wearing their colorful clothes to trade, chat, and eat.
     It’s worth going just to feast. I gorged on tacos, taquitos and tlayudas (large, thin tortillas with a variety of fillings) plus whatever caught my eye: pumpkin seed and honey discs, puffed amaranth and white chocolate wafers, …….and other delectables I should really take a photo of before I consume them.
     In the Tlacolula market I bought some watermelon chunks and tried to pay the woman when I felt someone tugging on my pants. I looked down and saw it was the cashier, a serious girl of maybe seven years old, no taller than my waist. I was apprehensive about paying her, but the woman gestured for me to do so, and I noticed she was wearing a money pouch. The little girl was all business. She reproached me for my hesitation by giving me a stern look and making change quickly. Confused, I looked back at the watermelon woman who gave a proud smile.

     On the way to Tlacolula I saw big, bright signs for “drogadictos anonimos” and “alcoholicos anonimos”, and then, in an appropriately lonely place on the highway, “neuroticos anonimos”.

     Statue in Ocotlan. I don’t know what else to say about this.


     Grasshoppers! Protein! These are sold all over town. In fact, grasshoppers in Oaxaca and the surrounding towns are just as omnipresent as tacos, believe it or not. How does one go about raising and breeding grasshoppers?


     Four tacos al pastor (meat off a vertical spit), only 12 pesos (12.5 pesos = $1.) The light yellow chunks are pineapple, which is surprisingly quite common.


     Hamburguesas McMel. It would be cool if McDonalds’ cease-and-desist letter had mustard stains on it.


     A chocolate miller in Oaxaca. I was fascinated by this. Raw cacao beans are mixed with sugar, almonds and cinnamon that people take home to make chocolate water, chocolate milk or other sweets, while other combinations of cacao and chilis are ground to form a basis of making mole. I poked my head into many mills to chat with the guys and sample their mixtures.


     Dreaming in color at the Tlacolula market


     2 kilos of potatoes for 10 pesos? How barbaric!


     Naming your Hungarian dance company Miskolc is like naming your American dance company Peoria or naming your Australian dance company Ipswich or naming your German dance company Sprockhovel or naming your British dance company Luton or…


Practical information:
     I chickened out of hitchhiking from Puebla to Oaxaca. It would have been a pain to find a good place to stand, lots of people already were hanging out by the road, plus other weak excuses. (It was hot.)
     Rideshare exists in Mexico, even if it feels in its infancy. This is a ride from Mexico City to Oaxaca for only 150 pesos each way, less than half the cost of the bus. It is a website worth keeping your eye on.
     I stayed at Hostal Pochon 120 pesos for a dorm bed, perfectly fine but if it is full, the dearth of bathrooms is a problem. I also stayed at the perfectly fine Hotel Posada el Chapulin (Grasshopper Hotel!) closer to town for 250 pesos for two people with bathroom, TV, wifi, etc.
     My advice is to check the housing listings on Oaxaca Craigslist even if you are in town for a short time. I saw a few private apartments for the same price as a dorm bed in a hostel.
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