The terrifying wilds of northern Mexico

   We were terrified, or at least somewhat apprehensive about bussing through the northern reaches of Mexico.  Every news item (and most of the FCO reports) about the border with USA referred to drug traffic and associated violence.  Lurid details of kidnappings, banditry and beheadings stood were writ large in our consciousness.  Every American we met south of Mexico City had only two words of advice about the north of the country: don't go.  Of course, none of these people had actually been to the north of Mexico and the few who we had met in earlier in our travels who had passed through had a fairly casual recollection of the risks.

   We decided to brave it, and after much deliberation chose a route to the States that took us exclusively in first class buses (not as flash as it sounds) on toll roads the whole way.  We reasoned that bandits and drug cartels had a bottom line; one that was at odds with well patrolled pay as you go thoroughfares.

   Our first stop was to be the highly rated colonial beauty, the seaside resort of Mazatlan.  Our enthusiasm sunk like a stone as our bus ploughed through flood waters two feet deep on the way into the bus station.  We promptly booked on the next bus heading north, completing 22 hours of bus travel to reach Los Mochis that evening.

   Los Mochis had very little going for it in terms of tourist attraction ... except for incredibly friendly people, exemplified by our impromptu tour guide, Chapitha.  On the pretext of practising her English, she offered to take us on a tour of the town, which expanded to include visiting her grandmother, meeting her parents and brother and sister and aunts and cousins.  As if that welcome was not enough, the whole family took us out for the afternoon and evening to see the sunset at the local seaside, 40km down the road.  We had a truly lovely time with them and felt so so welcome.  We have been so very lucky with in the wonderful people we've met these past 6 months.

   Our next stop, Hermosillo, was had very little to hold our attention, not that we gave it much of a chance.  By this stage our eyes were fixed firmly on the US border.  So firmly in fact that when we got to our crossing point at Nogales we made our first mess of a border crossing and stamped into the US before stamping out of Mexico.  Oops.

We rectified it in the end but only after some interesting discussion with US border officials, trying to convince them of the importance of going back and complying with the migration requirements of the Mexican authorities.  I am not sure they were convinced.  One gentleman seemed to find the very concept of laws beyond the US border something of an anathema.

Mexico City

   Oh my goodness.  What an amazing place.  If a man is tired of London, he should come to Mexico City.

   We arrived shortly before sunset and made our way into town with some trepidation.  The thought of navigating such a monster of a conurbation with 21 million people was rather intimidating, but it need not have been.  What we discovered was our new favourite city.

   We were so excited by the parks, public art and fabulous architecture that we forgot we were meant to be serious travellers and spent the next day playing tourists to the fullest extent of our budget.  We took the open-topped sightseeing bus around town, ate candy floss at a funfair, rode a miniature train around the main park, and took a pedalo for a cruise on the ornamental lake.  We did everything and it was fantastic.

   The following day we went to some of the more serious sights: the cathedral, the Templo Mayor and the government palace.  All of which were wonderful, especially the government palace which was both free and blessed with fabulous Diego Rivera frescos on the first floor.  We also met the friendliest security police to date, who foud my attempts to take a photo with the timer so amusing (lots of running and manic smiling) as to unearth all their best sociable and helpful qualities.

   However, the most wonderful thing about Mexico City, by far, was the tunnel of science.  It was so good we went through it three times.  If I lived in the city it would no doubt lengthen my commute each and every time I went to work.  At the La Rasa metro station there is a longish interchange between two train lines.  The walk would ordinarily take 6 minutes.  Rather than long and winding tunnels with unhealthy lighting (a la Bank to Monument in London) they have a "Tunnel of Science" filled with light box displays of information, imparting all sorts of knowledge: geograpical regions and features, geology, flora and fauna, culture and anthropology, biology, and best of all - a dark tunnel illuminated with a map of the stars all over the walls and ceiling.  Kizzy had to go back and fetch me out on each of our visits. 

Mexican Splendour

   After six weeks in Central America, Southern Mexico was a revelation.  San Cristobal in Chiapas was beautiful, with all the architectural drama and charm that had been largely absent since we had left Columbia.  The food was wonderful and the people friendly and inviting, all with a glow of enforced sobriety: the country was dry for two days to mark the federal elections.  Nevertheless, with the Euro 2012 final on election day there were a lot of interesting variations on orange and mango juices flowing in the restaurants.

   Good food experiences continued in Oaxaca, with Kizzy trying the local mezcal and then finding the world's biggest tortilla on display in the local government palace.  She needed something to pick her up after we had braved the overnight bus to get there.  Even in the most luxurious class she couldn't sleep and fretted the whole time that we would be hijacked by bandits.  We weren't.  We had a lovely time and here are some of the photos.

Backcountry Guatemala

   Getting through the northern reaches of Guatemala was harder than we had expected.  It felt as though we spent the better part of 6 days on micro-buses only to move a very small distance across our map of Central America.

   As well as the highlights of the Mayan ruins at Tikal (the rebel base in Star Wars) and the stunning natural beauty of Semuc Champey, we were also afforded insights into some of the finer points of human behaviour.

   On our way to Semuc Champey (Q: how do you keep a beautiful place from being overrun with tourists? A: really really bad roads.) we met the delightful Herb and Becky from Sacramento, California.  As Becky pointed out: not only would folks back home not believe some of their travel stories, they would have trouble even comprehending them.

   Over three days we spent 22 hours travelling in "micros".  Not mini-buses as such, but mini-vans converted to seat 12 to 16 people in the fashion of over-crowded people carriers.  While travelling with Herb and Becky, our micro, nominally kitted out to take 16 people, squeezed 26 on the inside.  Herb answered his own question, "You know how many people you can fit in one of these? Always one more."

   Travelling in this manner vitiates all notion of personal space.  On one journey, Kizzy found the lady behind her intermittently reaching out and playing with Kizzy´s hair.  And why not?  Some bloke had just squeezed on and without a backward glance promptly sat down on someone´s lap, because people do that here.

   The most absorbing (i.e. uncomfortable) leg of our journey was from Coban to Uspantan: three hours on terrible roads with 29 people in a vehicle with seats for 12.  Admittedly two people were on the roof by this stage.  Unuusually Kizzy and I hadn´t managed to sit together.  She was flanked by a man and a woman happy fall asleep on her shoulders.  I had two boys of perhaps four and six years of age squeezed in front of me.  They spent the first hour trying to eat their breakfast of rice and chicken, although this mainly consisted of the older boy occasionally forcing a handful of food into his brothers mouth.

   The youngest was patient and coped well in the circumstances but still managed to drive the rest of us a little bit potty with his antics.  These included all the things one might expect of a four year old boy:

  - not knowing what to do with his chicken bones so surreptitiously dribbling them onto the floor;
  - wiping his greasy hands on the trousers of the man beside me;
  - constantly fidgetting and thus slipping off his perch on the ledge behind the driver´s seat;
  - bouncing up and down vigorously in the manner of someone in desperate need of the loo;
  - absently stroking my calf or pulling out my leg hairs while reaching his other hand up the shirt of the lady on my lap (she was not amused).

Finally he and his brother fell asleep wedged between my knee and that of the bloke beside me, resulting in cramping muscles but otherwise some relief.  Their mother slept through it all, squashed behind me with her head on Kizzy´s shoulder.

   Kiz and I staggered away from the journey determined never to ride another micro again once we got out of Guatemala.  but now in Mexico things aren´t so bad.  They have a strict one seat one person policy it seems.

The last of the Caribbean coast

   On our way back to the Caribbean beaches we passed through Rio Dulce.  Our brief stop was insufficient to fully appreciate the charms of the place, which we are assured are manifold.  We settled for a stay in possibly the worst accommodation we have seen with sleep made that little bit more difficult as we were absorbed (somewhat involuntarily) by the conversation of the gentleman outside our window.  He was in turmoil over the ups and downs of his "special friendship" with Denise.  If there happens to be a Denise reading this, and you have a somewhat obsessive friend (or stalker) who was recently in Guatemala, please follow the example set by everyone else he engaged in conversation and walk away.  We´re sick of hearing about it.

   Our trip downriver was beautiful as we took the slow boat to Livingstone, through lush canyons of tropical rainforest and tranquil expanses of water lillies.  Livingstone itself was a rougher town than we had imagined but pleasantly so, being detatched from the resort feeling of other coastal towns.  We spent a day in the company of our guide, Jacinto, wandering through the marshes and jungle around town before travelling by dugout canoe downriver to the beach.  Jacinto had a bad leg and his nephew, who assisted had little legs, being only four years old.  Kizzy was grateful as it meant she could keep up all the way to way to Los Siete Altares where the river descended through a series of limestone pools.

   The following day, after another boat and bus journey, we were in Placencia in Belize, enjoying the lovely expanse of yellow sandy beach and the pleasant surprise of their Lobsterfest - marking the opening weekend of the lobster season.  Even better than the great food and fantastic beach was the wonderful surprise of meeting up with Dan and Gita again, last seen in a bar in Buenos Aires.  They had arrived in Placencia five days earlier and were having difficulty finding the incentive to move on.  By this time they were firmly entrenched in the local community scene.  I suspect that another week in town would see Dan nominated as treasurer of the local Rotary club.