From our lazy refuge in San Miguel de Allende we ascended into the misty green biosphere of Sierra Gorda. At 8,000 ft of elevation we spiraled upward through layers of cloud and leafy canopy reminiscent of our time in the Olympic peninsula, sans ocean. We sleep at the trailhead of Cascada Chuveje, listening to the echoing crackle of fireworks, their colorful explosions hidden from us behind the series of mountain tops looming directly above Mako.
We open our eyes to weak light and the trickle of rushing water as we set out early to hike the well-worn track to beautifully pooling waterfalls. Following the lead of ballsier tourists, we duck under the broken fence obstructing passage to the tumbling finale of a waterfall and set up my tripod for unencumbered photos, discussing what it was that could cause the streaked rock formation that grew like a tumor out from behind the narrow sheet of water.
Later that afternoon, we carried on through the hazy mountains, making for the town of Xilitla and the other-worldly sculpture garden that Edward James left there. When at last we arrived, we were stopped in the streets by a well groomed man in a crisp black shirt with Tierra Magica emblazoned in bright color on the collar. “Tienes boletos” he asks us, I reply that no, we do not have tickets, but are intending to purchase them at the entrance. “That cannot be done” he responds politely, “You must go to the Centro to purchase tickets.” “Well, okay, but where in the Centro?” I ask, he points to the logo on his shirt and repeats, “in the Centro”. We backtrack through the blocky congested streets and struggle to find parking, when at last we locate an open spot, jammed between a chicken truck and an old VW bug. We find the tiny Tierra Magica shop and start all over again. “We are looking for tickets to Las Pozas”. The man working the counter glances up from his phone and asks if we want to go today, “Si” we respond, “There are no tickets left for today, would you like to go tomorrow?” “Si” we respond, a little exasperated this time. He then launches into a long-winded explanation on how we need to text a number on what’sapp then when that number texts back we will pay him 1200 pesos then they will text us again with a QR code that we will need to show the ushers at Las Pozas in order to gain entry.
Now, by this point, I was only four days post-phone robbery and on high alert for suspicious activity, these tickets cost more than I had expected, were retrieved in the most round-about way possible, and is now setting our timeline back a day. We make our excuses and leave without the tickets, I could live without the sculpture garden, even if it does look a bit like a set from Lord of the Rings. Instead we make camp early at La Quinta Carolina, a cheap campground just down the road, and share hot showers with what appears to be half the world’s mosquito population.
That next morning when I opened my eyes to the light thrum of rainfall (for the first time in months), I hardly expected that in just a few hours I’d be tied to a rope and dropped into a 200 ft abyss. We arrived at Sotano de las Golondrinas (Swallow cave) disappointed to find that it was too cold for the swallows to venture outside their warm shelter. We begin hiking down anyway, the cave itself was sure to be worth seeing, when nearly at the bottom we are stopped by a vendor offering Repelling trips at MX$4200 per person.
We tell him no thank you, and explain that its just too expensive for our budget and we start to turn away when he offers instead $3000 per person. Tempting, but still way over what our daily budget will allow. We repeat “sorry but no thank you” and in a final Hail Mary he offers to take us for $3000 total, shows us his professional reppel certification, and photos of all his trips. I simply cannot say no to this man anymore, budget or no, I admire his persistence, so an hour later we are following him and his employees, all seated in the back of a pickup, through the tightest little town square I’ve ever seen, squeezing past locals on their way to the Sunday market.
Vascansio, our trusted guide, has us park near him on a misty hillside replete with livestock and damp vegetation, he then approaches us and using the translator app on Austins phone, silently asks that we do not mention how much we paid to the other couple on the tour, he worries they will be angry. We agree, trying hard not to giggle, before beginning the slow, uphill, trudge through two muddy farms and up a rocky forest trail, at last reaching the cave, a perfectly round hole overgrown with trees and ferns. The air is so thick with fog its impossible to see more than a few feet into its inky depths, so I forget to be afraid until Ive already been strapped securely into the ropes and hoisted below the surface.
It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever been truly afraid of death, I could imagine only too clearly how painful it would be if one of the five men holding the rope were to trip and drop me, how Id fall to the bottom and be nothing but a smudge in a pit. It takes far longer to drop far further than I had imagined, as my eyes adjust to the darkness I’m surprised by how cavernous this palace of stone revealing itself beneath my feet is. We spend about an hour climbing throughout the palatial gouge of rock, admiring the different formations and identifying the ones we recognized from our tour of Kings caverns in Colorado just 6 months ago: stalactites, flowstones, drapery, straws. How strange to be seeing them again, half a world away.
We splashed through the collected water who’s existence was responsible for everything we laid eyes upon, and marveled at the heavenly white sphere high overhead, the only clue that another world was still teeming with light and life above us. The capstone to our adventure is spinning to the top of the cave and climbing shakily out, asking Austin why all the guys are walking back up the hill, don’t they need to pull out Vascansio? Thats when I see, In order to pull each of us back out, the five men have tied themselves to the rope and run down the hill at full speed.
The next couple of days, are utterly pale and touristy in comparison. We arrive at the famously picturesque hot springs, Grutas Tolontongo, to the biggest crowds we’d yet seen in Mexico and a little miffed after being forced out of the car and made to walk through some unknown shower of chemicals, meanwhile, a man in a biohazard suit is spraying the interior of Mako with the same poison. The concoction is so potent it sets my chest aching and my eyes to burning, reminding me strongly of the powerful Rust remover I used to use in our bathrooms, that is, before I tired of the pounding headaches that always followed.
The room we splurged on in exchange for pool proximity is set just feet away from the restaurant, with paper thin walls, this meant two things; freezing cold, and unbearably loud bar room chatter. Long story short, we got our photos and got out, much more optimistic for Teotihucan and the ancient aztec playground of pyramids, craftsmanship, and sacrifice.
We arrived in Teotihucan exhausted from hours of mindless driving, relieved to have easily located Mi Mexico Lindo, a campsite neighboring the Zona Arqeologica with raving reviews on Ioverlander. It didn’t take long to see why, no sooner than we had checked in and paid the small camping fee than Josh introduced himself to us.
Josh, is my favorite person in all of Mexico, even if he was just trying to make a commision. Josh, explained to us the importance of agave, the vital role it played in shaping the lifestyles and culture of his ancestors, and demonstrated how it was used in everything from weaving, to alcohol, to soap. He showed us the different minerals mined in the area, from sparkly gold and rainbow obsidian, to the glassy quartz varieties. As we paruse the sculpted peices he has in the shop, he hands to me a heavy block of obsidian, intricatly carved in the form of a monkey, waiting for us to ooh and ah appreciativly before breaking the news; “This represents the god of childbirth and fertility, according to Aztec lore, anyone who holds it will soon be pregnant” His mischeveous grin widens as we both shout “No!” in perfect harmony, and I nearly drop the MX$16,000 sculpture.
When we’re eyeing up the locally weaved blankets he gives us all the background info, The piece we purchase, our first souvenir in Mexico, took 12 days to make on the loom, and is dominated by a handstiched image of the Aztec calender. Somewhere between our 12th or 14th shot of some heady mezcal samplers (that Josh is a pusher I swear), we mention our desire to try the popular air balooning tours over the pyramids and, without hesitation, Josh calls up a friend of his at Nuevo Cielo, and helps to sort out a hot air ballooning tour for the following morning.
To see Teotihuacan from among the clouds is to truly see why it is known as the city of the gods. We floated over the pyramid of the Moon just seconds after the sun broke the horizon and burned golden over the ancient ruins beneath us. Devoid of bustling tourists, I felt as though I had been transported back in time, and could fully understand the mythic legends that took hold of the people, driving a twisted history of beauty and atrocity. Mexico possesses a treasure trove of archeological sites, learning the history of each, with their remains so close at hand, has served to better immerse us in this beautifully diverse culture
Our balloon landed, somewhat askew, in the branches of a tree, but smoothly none the less, a team of air-balloon wranglers succeeded in lassoing and pulling our craft back to earth with a bottle of peach flavored champagne ready and waiting to toast a new morning in historic Teotihacuan. I watched a bright red balloon land behind me in the reflection of my champagne glass as It traveled to my lips, I could hear its inhabitants cheering as they hit the ground with a muted thump, inspiring a bubbliness in us that had nothing to do with the liquid in our glasses, and we toast privately to our own adventure.
We would return to the pyramids 24 hours later, this time on the ground, but surrounded by the planet’s most persistent salesmen, and tourists with sweat stained, modern clothing, the gravity and significance of where we were failed to capture me.
We bid farewell to Mi Mexico Lindo with a stack of pancakes and many thank you’s, our time in this campground had been the most hospitable in months, now we were diving headfirst, back into the unknown, and I still didn’t feel ready. Why is it that the theft of so small a thing could leave me feeling physically raw, I have to bounce back eventually right? And so on we pushed, stubbornly into new places, just waiting for that spark to reignite. Now, Oaxaca.
Known as a meca of gastronomy, the city represented my most anticipated visit in all of Mexico, I’d been “researching” for weeks in the form of Netflix specials, podcast’s, and visitor guides, now at last, it was my turn. As excited as I was for the city, I wasn’t eager for the six hour drive, so in order to break it up we threw in a couple detours: First, the active volcanoes of Iztaccihuatl and popocatepetl, where we broke our highest camping record at 11,100 ft. Second, the scorching, cactus coated, oasis of the Jardin Botanico (Botanical Garden).
As we drove through Pueblo, still hours away from the Jardin, we saw in our rear-view a sight to make any overlander’s heart stop, the flashing lights of the policia on our tail. We radio to our friends the Tsavos and they pull over just ahead of us as the officer ambles slowly over to the car, of course, what jumps to mind is another friend’s unfortunate story from just the day before. They’d been driving through Campeche when they’d been pulled over and hassled, accused of being in the country illegally, and then of having marijuana, they’d refused to pay the bribes he was so transparently angling for, and I knew we could do the same if that’s what it came down to, my worry was our ID’s. We’d been lazy about color copying and laminating our originals, thinking that the infamous old trick, where the officer refuses to give back your ID’s without a cash incentive, was just a sensational rumour. Now, we were seriously regretting it.
Gruffly, the officer asks Austin for his ID, Austin holds it up but doesn’t hand it over, even as the officer folds his fingers around it, and a slightly awkward not-quite tug of war ensues. The officer then asks to see our registration, then the TIP, he walks around the vehicle, throws up his hands, and then lets us go. I don’t know what to make of the little interaction, I feel like a jerk for being difficult, especially if this guy was being totally honest, and we resolve to track down the nearest Office Depot when we get into Oaxaca.
It’s in the humming streets of Oaxaca, and from our spotless campground in neighboring Tula, that I finally feel myself unbend and hatch from the timid little shell I’d inadvertently found myself in. The Oaxacan people varied from friendly to indifferent, not reliant on tourism to the point of resentment or heckling, but so accustomed to visitors that we were never ogled or treated as some recently discovered species. People smiled and waved back at us, were excited to try out their English if they were practicing, and were always eager to recommend restaurants or sights.
Emboldened by our smooth welcome, we decide to pull the, long overdue, suspension-upgrade trigger. Sick and tired of our poor Mako getting made fun of for her saggy butt, we track down a shop who could give her a little lift without breaking the bank. Before heading into Mexico we’d been quoted $3000 to add four springs to the rear suspension, here in Oaxaca, we paid only $200 and the work is phenomenal, she looks about 20 years younger.
While Mako was being pampered at Renovallantas Muelles y Servicios, we explored the city center, even catching a small parade in honor of international women’s day and tasting some mole at last (did you know there are 7 different kinds?!)
Jumping in, stomach first, we explored the buzzing hive that is the Mercado de Abastos. The Mercado is one of the largest in the country and sells just about anything you can think of, from bright plastic children’s toys, to street food, florals, and colorful fruits. You wander for hours through the maze of vendors, wicker baskets to your left, overflowing with seasoned crickets, to your right, salted fish lie out raw on the table, the monger frantically brushing off swarms of flies.
People in every direction are haggling, and each food stall looks more incredible than the next, it’s enough to make you wish you had a spare stomach or two. Memeles are an inescable favorite at the market, we beelined to the stall of Dona Vale, a chef we’d seen on Netflix’s street food series on Latin America, for our first bite of this regional fare. They don’t taste nearly as simple as they look, Oaxacan cheese, freshly mixed masa, and topped with a salsa I would gladly bathe in.
Our first morning at the pristine El Rancho campground, Austin woke to a notification on his phone, our package, with my phone and camera lens, had arrived at the Fedex facility in Oaxaca! Finally, no more sharing a phone, no more constant reminders of that thieving Guadalajarran scoundrel, a clean slate! We made to call for a taxi but the first company refused, something about too many people in the Centro, “how odd”, we thought… a fellow resident of the campground was just about to drive his old sprinter into town to get a pair of cycling shoes repaired, so he offered to let us tag along, and we eagerly accepted.
Barely a mile down the road and I realize what I had missed in translation with the cab company. The Normalistas, in the midst of a protest, had blockaded the highway with a mix of people, trucks, and buses haphazardly organized to stop anyone from getting through. You’d think it would be easy to just go around given the magnitude of tiny side streets but the Normalistas are flawlessly thorough when they want to be. Each highway off shoot has either been blocked with red ropes, rocks, people, or parallel parked cars. We shrug it off, its part of the experience, and their’s always tomorrow. We would become very well acquainted with the Normalistas over the coming week, thrice would they be responsible for total itinerary rewrites, when 4 out of 5 days they just happened to be blocking the streets we needed, its like they could hear us planning or something; “They want to see turtles on the Oaxacan coast? Not if I have anything to say about it!”
At first, I thought they must be blocking vital streets all over the city, only to find that it’s usually just one or two at a time, and our luck really was that bad. Or perhaps we should see it as cosmic intervention? We take it as a sign to skip over the coast, instead choosing to plow eastward toward Veracruz. Gee, at this rate, we’ll be shipping to Columbia in no time.