places in-between (and the excellence of a well-timed cold beer)

(An excerpt from a “Central America and my Own Fantastic Heart of Darkness, Pt. 1”, a blog entry written from Antigua, Guatemala on May 15, 2015.)

It's been seven weeks since I left Twentynine Palms, California. I've now been on the road consistently for longer than ever before, and the length of time parallels the increasing depth and intensity of the action it represents, as I move deeper and deeper into Central America. The foot I nearly broke only 3 miles outside my exit point is finally healing, and in place of that physical damage is something else… the pleasure/pain combination that accompanies intense new experiences, joys and annoyances, from the humiliation of dumb mistakes to the awe felt after seeing brand new things.

There are so many stories it's hard to know where to begin. Every place I've passed through has taught me something new. I've learned that the little unglamorous villages and towns, ones that tourists often dismiss or deliberately avoid, have greater potential for meaningful interactions. People living in them tend to be less jaded; cautious but more curious and accessible in the end if they're presented with the right attitude on my part. Each has its own unique identity. The further south I ride, the more quickly I pick up on the nuances distinguishing each one.

I rode north from San Cristobal de las Casas to Palenque and up into the Yucatan Peninsula, bee-lining for the Mexico/Belize border. My pace is driven by an urgency stemming from the weather. In May the rainy season begins through much of Central and the northern parts of South America. You can usually avoid the rains by riding in the morning, but the standing water and mud from the previous day's torrents are often still around. Riding fully loaded on two wheels in those conditions requires skills I'm just beginning to acquire. It is, of course, May now.

Palenque gave me my first taste of Mayan ruins that were at one point encased in jungle, but are now manicured and tamed, and I found myself more fascinated with other tourists and related trappings than with the old structures themselves (as beautiful as they are). What I loved the most here were the "in between" details and places: the collectivo busses that shuttled both tourists and locals between the town of Palenque and its ruins; the gates, locks and signs separating the past from the reality of the present; and the town itself, with its watch repair stores, informal walk-in doctor offices, ice cream parlors, taco joints and endless bright colors.

The further north I rode, the flatter and sweatier the landscape became. The map of the lower Yucatan shows straight line after straight line, roads that cut through endless swaths that conjure up pictures of Kenya from old 60's era Encyclopedia Britannica volumes: low, broad-limbed trees shimmering in waves of heat with flat, washed-out colors and people leading animals with loads of vegetation on their backs. You could smell the sea in the air, tinged with smoke from patches of jungle burning in the distance.

In Xpujil I found the Gran Jaguar Inn, with a courtyard where I could lock my bike out of sight from the street, a room with bright green walls and a towel shaped like either a swan or a cobra snake, depending on your point of view. The hostess had gold caps on her teeth and a fabulous skin-tight flower print dress which she occupied with force. She, like everyone, put up with my bad Spanish without giving me shit and told me where to go to get a decent meal, in the conveniently-located comedor, right next door.

Famished and dying for a cold beer, I sat down in one of about 30 empty red plastic seats and hoped for the best. One guy was there with an empty grill…but he seemed pretty eager to make something for me, so what the hell, I thought. 

"Tiene cervezas?"

He shook his head no, but asked me what I wanted to eat anyway, rattling off a long list of choices, of which I understood one. Tacos al pastor. "Con pina?" "Siiiiiii...... y queso, por favor..." Yeah. He fired that grill up and in a matter of minutes I had the freshest tasting marinated cured pork, pineapple and cheese tacos, smothered in a sweet dried tomato salsa, that occupied my entire plate. 

"Quiere una cerveza?" 
"Um, siiii, por favor..."

Off he bolted down the street, in a clipped, jaunty gate exaggerated by his flip-flops, with onions and sausages sizzling away on his now-very-hot grill. I thought, "crap," and got up to toss the food around for him so it wouldn't burn. Seconds later he returned, with a fresh and extremely cold can of Negro Especial in his hand. We laughed over it and he plopped down at the table next to me.  And we did the best we could to exchange some words. When I mention "meaningful interactions" with those I meet, this is what I'm talking about. And this was why I was going to miss the hell out of Mexico.

I spent my last night in the country in the Yucatan coastal town of Chetumal, getting ready to launch into an even deeper kind of "unknown" that would be Belize and the rest of Central America. I knew a little of what I was in for, thanks to the encouragement of a good friend who'd taken the same route only six weeks before. English is spoken there, which I knew would make for a "soft" introduction. Still, I fought the urge to put it all off for another day when I'd somehow be "better prepared". 

Fuckit.