The Road to Palenque

Warning: This post has a shiteload of photos in it.

We got up a little after 5:00 a.m. to get ready for 6:00 breakfast and the 6:30 shuttle bound for Palenque. Our concrete room was gruesomely cold in the pre-dawn. In the van I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and kept flopping over onto Sarah’s shoulder. I may have imagined it, but I thought I felt gentle nudges toward the opposite direction.

Roadsigns advised drivers that Mas vale tarde que nunca, as we say in the US.

We made a pit-stop and I had a hard time picking out our van from all the other white Otisa vans, until I thought to distinguish them by the cracks each had in the windshield. Ours wore a round baseball-sized smash, two bullet holes and lighting bolt cracks radiating from them.

I tried to sleep again against the murmur of Spanish conversation. Though I tried to tune it out, I found myself straining to understand. At one point, semi-conscious, somehow I realized they were talking about something that interested me. I opened my eyes just in time to see a building with a huge message painted on the side: “You’re in Zapatista territory” (except it was in Spanish). Along the way we were stopped (as we have been elsewhere in Mexico) by armed guards who, with machine guns pointed toward us, have peeked inside the car and into the trunk, I guess to make sure we’re not carrying contraband.

Our first sightseeing stop was at Cascadas de Agua Azul. A cascada, as I’m sure you can guess, is a waterfall, not to be confused with cí¡scaras, which means fruit or vegetable peelings.

Sarah repeatedly said that it’s nice to travel with someone who has such a good camera. I attempted to point out to her that it’s not the camera that matters, but the operator. She seemed unconvinced. What do you think? [To see a picture full-size, click on its thumbnail and then click on “Look at Big Version” at the bottom of the blue box.]

[ngg src=”galleries” ids=”1″ display=”basic_imagebrowser”]Our next stop: Cascadas de Misol-Ha, a giant waterfall that we walked behind. As at Agua Azul, there are crosses dotted about the banks, I assume in memory of those who ventured into the dangerous waters and didn’t make it out.

[ngg src=”galleries” ids=”5″ display=”basic_imagebrowser”]Finally we reached Palenque. Here is ample documentation of the adventure. I’m not going to write about its history because I don’t know it. It’s old. And sacred. And amazing. People lived there. Maya people. Their society was complex. They didn’t mind narrow, steep stairs. They’re dead now. Very dead.

[ngg src=”galleries” ids=”2″ display=”basic_imagebrowser”]All day, three young men from Mexico City on our van were friendly to us, especially Sarah with whom they could communicate. We all hung out together briefly at the end of our Palenque visit while waiting for our van to depart. For the second time, I chanced it on dubious food, buying quesadillas from an old man who, working under a tarp over the packed dirt, smooshed together the ingredients with his not entirely pristine hands. But it was 4:30 and my last chance to eat that day.

The people I’ve met here, including these three guys, are spirited, warm, love to talk and find excuses to have a party. And they love chistes and chisme: jokes and gossip. Most of the former are culturally embedded so I can’t understand them. But for my benefit, one of the three young men, Luis, told a comprehensible, bilingual one.

Pregunata: ¿Como le dice el bebe foca a su mama foca? [What does the baby seal say to the mother seal?]
Repuesta: Mother foca.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the word for “seal” now. I also learned some cool colloquial words: flaca is skinny, chafa is cheap, flojo is lazy. Well, I didn’t learn them. I just wrote them down. I’ve been amazed how different Mexican vocabulary is from Guatemalan. Aside from the chaqueta incident I wrote about earlier, I’ve encountered a bunch of words that either mean something else here, or that don’t mean anything here.

When we parted, two of the men offered their right cheek for the customary Mexican kiss. I like the tradition. Men and women alike — those I know and those I’ve just met — do the same thing. It’s a rich and welcoming culture, and it’s amazing (though hardly a novel observation) that these are the same people we often treat like crap in the US.