There’s a street here called Guadalupe Andador. That’s the street with all the bars and restaurants and where you usually can find expats hanging out at the wine bar called La Viña de Bacco. Great bar. They give you tapas with every every order, and a glass of their house red costs $18 pesos! If we go there, we end up staying too long and eating far too much tapas and drinking far, far too much wine. There’s been a few nights where we were there so long, we forgot about dinner altogether. (It is also the scene of my one night of gastrointestinal horror… not due to their tapas, but due to a waitress giving us a free shot of tequila as we walked out the door. BIG mistake on my part.)
What was interesting about the unexpected running with the bull on a Chiapas highway was not the excitement, or the rush of running for what we thought was our lives, or a practice session for running with the bulls in Pamplona with my father, or the rare opportunity to run in panic with dozens of Mayan descendants in one moment of shared experience. Rather, it was the structures of authority in place and its comparison to the United States – that wealthy and unenchanting world of reasoned irrationality – a token (as the neo-Marxist Marcuse would say) of advanced (un)civilized progress.
So here it is, the end of a long, stinky day, and what’s the only thing my travel companions can think of? Beer.
So, as I said, I started out this day wearing wet pants and being way overtired. Additionally, I was informed that we were taking the van to a place where we had to take a boat to get to one of the ruins we were going to see. I was thrilled; a zigzaggy van ride, followed by a boat ride. What’s not to love?
We went to another indigenous town today. It was an easy journey. 13 pesos each. Huppy and I were seated in the very back seat of a minivan. It was a simple ride and quiet. The other passengers were sleeping. At one point though, we heard this muzzled thrashing behind us and we looked into the back part of the van and there was a large cardboard box. Imagine my shock when I saw, peering out at me, one little terrified chicken’s eye. As my father-in-law said, I would not want to be a chicken in this part of the world. You never know if you’re going to be eaten, boxed, strangled in a religious ceremony or just tied up at the feet and hung upside down for hours until you get to whatever your fate has in store for you.
No, none of you were stupid or incompetent with your computers. I took a shortcut with the photos that didn’t work.
We are now in a wee little apartment. It’s actually quite cute. I promised I wouldn’t reveal it’s location because nobody wants this place to suffer the “Lonely Planet” effect. See, anything mentioned in “Lonely Planet” ends up getting swamped and/or having its prices raised. It’s annoying. I’ll take pictures and everything soon.
But first, Chiapas de Corzo. We took a boat ride down Sumidero Canyon.