Messing with the Mayan Ruins of Mexico, Belize, Guatamala and Honduras
December 1995
Note: This journal is based around logistics and observations. You can read about the sites I visited in the guidebooks.
Tuesday December 12th
By the time I arrived in Mexico City around 6.40pm local time, it was 6 hours behind so it was midnight on my body clock. Filled in immigration forms. Fought to get my virtually empty backpack off an impossibly small luggage area and was briefly searched at customs. I made my way to the Domestic Terminal and tried to get my bearings. Looked exactly like Caracus Airport. I struck lucky. There was an AeroMexican flight to Merida at 9.15pm .The near empty decrepid old plane arrived in Merida about 10.30pm and I got a taxi downtown to my decripid old hotel - the Casa de Huespedes Peniche. Basic room with 30 ft ceiling and a fan. Cold water and undrinkable. 30 pesos a night. By the time I crashed it was midnight. I had been travelling 24 hours. It was 6am on my body clock. I felt disorientated but I had reached the Yucatan peninsula and the start of my extensive tour of Mayan ruins
Wednesday December 13th
When I awoke, I didn't know what time it was, but it was light. I headed for the bus station to see where I could go. Grid pattern to streets. It was 7.30am. and exploring the timetable, I discovered that the Punc Ruins tour bus left at 8am. Perfect. The cheapest way to see everything. No guide. No lunch. Just transport. Half an hour at each site and two hours for Uxmal - the best. The bus was full of tourists/ backpackers. We drove for one and a half hours south and did these sites. Back in Merida, I sampled a Corridas Comida with cold beers on the central plaza. Walked around the streets, but found nothing of mention. I slept through the evening's activities at the plaza where couples were serenaded by local musicians.
Thursday December 14th
Up early and at the bus station by 5.45am. I met Maria, a Spanish girl who had been on yesterday's tour, but I hadn't spoken to her. Like me, she was headed for Chichen Itca the most famous Mayan ruin in the Yucatan. Easy bus ride through low lying woodland. Unable to see anything either side of the road. It was a sweltering day. The ruins were as good as I expected and I explored them throughly. Gradually the site filled up with tour groups. By noon, I'd had four hours there and had seen everything. There was a 1.30pm bus to Tulum and Playa de Carmen. Met Maria again. She was going to Playa de Carmen. On the bus was a Swiss girl, Theresa, who'd been travelling for 10 months. Maria spoke no English. Theresa could speak both Spanish and English. Arriving at 7pm, we trudged around in the dark until we finally found the Youth Hostel (Villa de Juveniles) and rented a cabana with four beds at 30 pesos each. Walked back to the main strip and gorged ourselves on a variety of tacos. The town was full of tourists.
Friday December 15th
Both Maria and Theresa were looking to hole up by the beach for a few days, but I wanted to keep moving. After exploring the town by the sea, a 9am bus took me to Tulum. Tulum was set by a beautiful coastline, jam packed with American tour groups . It was a tiny site and impossible to avoid them. I lasted an hour and around noon I walked back to the main road and tried to flag down a few buses (unsuccessfully). I was joined by Oliver and Marie, a Belgium couple who had only just flown to Cancun. Like me, they were headed for Belize. We stopped a bus going to Felipe Carillo Puerto. Smooth bus ride though the same vegetation. Another bus to Chetumal on the border.
We made the last Batty Brothers bus into Belize at 5.15pm. By the time we reached the border, it was dark. We were the only tourists. It was raining and the border was muddy. Filled in immigration forms. Officials spoke English, but very self important. Managed to get a 5 day pass out of them. Belizeans on the bus were drunk. We didn't fancy the three and a half hour ride to Belize City arriving late in a town well known for mugging we opted to get out at Corozal, a small town twenty minutes south of the border. It was wet and foggy, but I got my bearings and we walked a few blocks to Nestor's. Well known hotel. Created by Nestor a huge, bearded American guy in cowboy hat and boots. Basic ensuite room ($20 Belize - $10US) and powerful air conditioner. It was very humid. Joined Oliver and Maria for dinner in the bar. They were headed for a secluded wildlife sanctuary.
Saturday December 16th
Again, I was up by 5.30am and walked to the bus station (Novellas) in the fog to catch the 6am bus to Belize City. Pleasant ride through swampy landscape. Sun came up and it got very hot and humid. Met by voracious crowd of taxi drivers in Belize City but shook them off and found Novella's bus station. No bus going west until 11am. I checked in my backpack and had two hours exploring Belize City. Walked through the dangerous areas to main centre. Offered drugs three times and a guide. Did the famous swinging bridge, Maria Lisa Hotel (Mosquito Coast film), the waterside, church and cemetery. Exhausted the sites and pulled out on a packed bus at 11am. Some travellers on board. Drove through dusty landscape.
Arrived at San Ignacio around 1pm. Found a room at the Central Hotel for $20 Belize run by old Englishman and frequented by hung over Aussies. A real dust town, full of travellers. Caught a local bus 10km to San Jose Succotz. Then crossed the river by a free ferry and started walking the mile up to Xunantunich ruins. A Tennessee couple picked me up and gave me a ride in the back of their pickup. Incredible dust road of bumps and mud and floods. The tiny jungle site was virtually deserted and silent.. A pleasant change from Tulum. I climbed the El Castillo for a stupendous view towards the jungle to Guatemala. I walked back down the trail to the ferry and had to crash my way through the jungle to avoid the mud. Chatted to the ferryman while waiting for a bus back to San Ignacio. Started drinking beers at Eva's restaurant and met Patrick from Oregon. We met Dan from Toronto and a couple of Swedish girls and had dinner at a Ski Lankan restaurant.
Sunday December 17th
Everyone seemed to be heading for Tikal. I met Patrick at the bus station for the 7.30am bus after having a coffee at a cafe run by an ex Coventry man. He told me about some excellent canoe and caving trips. There was plenty to do in the area - at a cost, but I wanted to see Tikal. The bus dropped us at the Guatemala border. We met Dan, who was doing a $75 US day trip to Tikal. We were doing a one way cheapo route. As we left Belize, they had signs saying various items could not be exported - matches, soda drinks, pasta, fruit. Guatemala officials gave me a 90 day pass for 1 US dollar. Outside, we found a minibus to take us to Tikal for $10.
There were serious bandit problems. Various tour buses, local buses and minivans had been held up over the past fortnight. We had been warned not to go. A Canadian couple and an American girl joined us in the minivan. Our driver had been held up 3 days before. I dispersed my credit cards, cash and travellers cheques in my boots and dirty laundry. The bandits were active on a 50 km unmade road where everyone looked suspicious. The driver told us about the hold up. Guns and lots of noise, but no shootings. Since it was near Xmas, bandits needed money. He had been taking eight tourists and they lost all money, cameras etc. Footwear had been removed and inspected. Along this unmade road of sharp rocks, we got a puncture. For a nervous ten minutes, I were certain it was a setup but helped to change the type. We climbed aboard and drove to the main crossroads and a smoother thirty km to the National Park (10 Q entry fee).
We were driven another 15km to the centre and taken to the Tikal Inn. Lovely hotel. Patrick and I booked a double room for $35US between us, dumped the stuff and explored the site. For five hours, we climbed every pyramid and every ruin. Some epic climbs up rocky cliff faces, grabbing branches to get majestic views across the jungle land. No other civilisation in sight. Pyramid 4 was the highest and you could climb higher to a vertical ladder. I walked around the 2ft ledge, right around the top with a 200ft drop on every side. Then I did it two more times to prove it wasn't a fluke. There was just bare wall on one side and nothing on the other. Nothing to grab for if you fell. Bad news when the wind came up. We climbed a structure to watch the sun come down. There was a huge variety of wildlife. We saw spider monkeys, porcupines, foxes, brightly coloured birds, jungle police birds which screamed an alarm when you approached, Coatamundi, Jagaromdi, turkeys and peacocks. The jungle echoed with wildlife as the sun descended. We walked out of the jungle in the dark back to our hotel for a swim. In the evening we toured the four restaurants for beers, garlic soup and cheese and bacon sandwiches. When we returned to our room at 10pm. All power had been switched off.
Monday December 18th
We got up at 5am and walked in the dark back into the ruins. Climbed Pyramid 1 which was being repaired and supposedly off limits. Very slippery steps and bad news descending. It was very misty and it had been raining. Climbed Pyramid 4 again, to find a dozen people waiting for the sunrise. The sun never broke through the mist. We could hear the wildlife but see nothing. Very peaceful. Around 8am we gave up. Patrick went off to explore somewhere. I headed for a restaurant and met Mitte, a lovely Danish girl and chatted. She was sleeping rough. Nobody seemed to be arriving in the park and it was very quiet. Back at the hotel, I discovered that there was a strike. There was no power at the hotel and the park had been shut down. Nothing was coming in or going out. It was 17km to the park border and the Canadians had started walking with their packs. We hung around not sure what to do - definitely not walking out of the park.
Eventually, a whole convoy of tourist buses rolled in. The strike was still on, but they had let in the tourists which meant transport out. We caught a minibus out of the park to Flores and got out at the airport for a 50 minute 4pm flight to Guatemala City ($53US). A tiny plane, carrying 20 people, it saved a 15 hour bus ride. I was able to look over the whole county. Touching down, we climbed aboard a shuttle bus to Antigua - but had to negotiate the capital city's rush hour which was a nightmare of traffic jams. The road out to Antigua was one long strip of ugly neon signs.
It was dark and we saw nothing until we pulled into the cobble stoned town. Dropped at the bus station, a local drove us round the corner to a hotel 'La Casa de Santa Lucia III'. A very clean and comfortable place. We ate next door at a lovely quiet restaurant and gorged ourselves on tortilla chips with cheese and salsa, then a platter of typical food - steak, chicken, other meats, sausages, rice, salad, guacamole and beers. The owner Katherine, tried to improve our Spanish.
Tuesday December 19th
I got up early and walked around the clam cobble stoned streets as locals cycled and walked to work. Off the main thoroughfare, there was little traffic. At the end of our block was the church of La Merced, with one of the most intricate and impressive facades in the entire city, crammed with plaster moulding of interlaced patterns. There were already people in a service. The market and bus station areas were full of hustle and bustle.
Later, Patrick and I walked to the central plaza - (Parque Central). The most imposing of the surrounding structures is the Cathedral of San Jose. The original cathedral begun in 1545 collapsed in the earthquake of 1583. In 1670, it was rebuilt to become the most spectacular building in Central America. It withstood earthquakes in 1689 and 1717, but 1773's earthquake brought it crashing to the ground. Today, two of the chapels have been restored and behind it lays the remains of the rest of the structure, a mass of fallen masonry, rotting beams, broken arches and hefty pillars, cracked and moss covered. Buried beneath the floor are some of the great names of the conquest - Alvarado (who originally fought his way into the area). Around the Parque Central also runs the Palace of the Captain's General, a squat two storey facade with 27 arches on each floor.
One of the attractions of Antigua are its volcanoes and we wanted to climb one. Heading to the bus station, we watched local buses unloading large masses of produce from their roofs. Two of the three volcanoes take two days to climb, but the Volcan de Aqua is the easiest and by far the most popular of Guatemala's big cones to climb. We squeezed into the back of the 10.30am bus full of locals heading for Santa Maria de Jesus. It was a real chicken bus, packed to capacity. We stood all the way as the bus crawled along a twisty dirt track road. Rough was an understatement.
Perched high on the shoulder of the volcano, the village is some 500 metres above Antigua. Supposedly, there are magnificent views over the Panchry Valley but low cloud prevented any vistas. Santa Maria was founded at the end of the 16C for Indians to provide firewood for Antigua. At the dusty village, which is now a farming community, we found the women wearing beautiful traditional purple 'Huipiles'. The trail started opposite the church in the plaza. We had been warned about the threat of bandits, but we only saw local men hauling wood on their backs, crouched over with massive loads or leading horses with similar loads. Everyone seemed friendly enough. It was a well trodden path and very dusty. We set off at a good pace, conscious that the last bus left at 5pm. Starting at 11.30am, we were cutting it close. The trail had forests on either side. The locals all carried huge machete knives for hacking at the vegetation. It was hot on the lower levels but then cooled, as cloud surrounded us. Throughout the day, we didn't catch one view of the valley. By 2.20pm we were near the top (3766 metres), but exhausted. The altitude took it out of our lungs and the steep ascent had taxed our legs especially at our rapid pace. I gave it one last burst up the steepest part and made it to the tree lined top and turned right around again.
At 3pm we started our descent. We had two hours, no water and felt exhausted. It seemed to take as long descending as ascending. We couldn't rest and were forced to jog past laughing farmers and their horses. Somehow we reached the plaza at 5pm on the dot, just as the bus pulled in. We met three Norwegians who had thrown up on the top from altitude sickness. I felt wretched. Thankfully the bus was relatively empty. After picking up the laundry, we lay on our beds and wondered why on earth we had done it. We returned to Katherine's for another slap up meal, but hit our beds early with aching limbs.
Wednesday December 20th
The early night meant that we were refreshed and out by 6am. We wanted to spend our last day catching a bus to Lake Atitlan, the most popular area in the western highlands. Most tourists spend days there, and our bus was completely packed with tourists/travellers. I wanted to visit a proper market, so we got out at Chimaltenango about 45 minutes north of Antigua and left the tourists to continue on. This town suffered terribly from the 1976 earthquake and it was a real dust bowl with the Pan American Highway passing through. The market was huge - selling everything. Local Indians sat in bunches selling chillies, every kind of vegetable, baskets of live chickens. Visiting a bank to cash a travellers cheque, I was surprised to see an armed guard on the doorway. One inside and another perched above the counter in a bullet proof cubicle. I guess bandits really did exist.
We caught another bus to Patzicia, a tiny village, then another bus back to the Pan American Highway. An Express bus took us to Los Encuentros, which was a dusty traffic junction. The Pan American Highway was packed with trucks and buses. The army and police had roadblocks. Everyone had to pretend to sit down as we passed, since standing was illegal. Difficult to do, when there were 20 more people than seats. Finally, a bus took us down to the main lakeside town called Panajachel via Solola. The lake was vast and a lovely colour, hemmed in by massive volcanoes and steep hills - very similar to New Zealand's Fiord land. Its natural splendour has made it the focus of the tourist industry, but Panajachel turned out to be just one big tourist town. It had taken four hours to get there, but I was glad I wasn't staying.
After a walk around in the blazing heat, and lunch off a stall, we decided that there was nothing to keep us there and climbed aboard a packed bus.. So packed, it could not get up the hill. The driver was forced to reverse for half a mile, dump a third of the passengers and gunned it all the way to the top. He was on a mission from God and we hurtled past anything in front, regardless of whether traffic was coming towards us. He drove so quickly, that he couldn't stop for others on the roadside, and when he did, his conductor would shout 'Allez Allez' and the bus wouldn't even stop. They climbed on as it was moving. Maybe he was trying to break a speed record. After a few close shaves with trucks, buses, army roadblocks, we were dropped at Chimaltenango where another bus was waiting. I was very impressed with the Guatemalan bus service, but not the roads.
We were taken to Antigua down a backroad so rough, I was still shaking when we arrived from the constant pounding. Back in town, we had a chance to explore some more of the ruined facades of cathedrals before visiting the market to haggle for souvenirs. Xmas was in the air, and religious parades passed us by, with people holding candles and carrying religious emblems like coffins.
Thursday December 21st
Patrick was heading back to Belize for his final days. A 5am shuttle bus to took him to the Airport for a flight to Flores, repeating our original journey. We had had an excellent four days together, but now we had to go our separate ways. I was out of the hotel by 5.30am and climbed aboard a worker's bus going to Guatemala City. The entire city was covered in cloud which I looked down upon as the bus descended into the valley. Loud music pulsated through the bus. Most workers slept throughout the entire journey. There was nothing I wanted to see in the City but since it is the crossroads of the entire country, I had to go there to get a bus to Honduras.
I was dropped a few blocks from Parque Central and the Palacio National - a solid stone faced structure looking south towards the neon maze of Zona 1. People were sleeping in the streets. Beggars slumbered and litter blew everywhere. The only clean thing in the area were the Palace's steps which were being washed. It was a real eyesore. After getting my bearings, I walked briskly through the litter and market stalls being assembled, gradually zig-zagging across the grid formation streets to the bus station near the train station. There was turmoil at the bus station. Dozens of buses all trying to find space - honking at each other to move out of the way. The local ones were ear peicingly loud and seemed to lack exhausts. Someone asked me where I was headed. When I said Honduras, he marched me up to a bus and before I knew it, my bag was stowed and I was seated. We were off within five minutes.
For 13Q, I was driven to Chiquimala via El Progreso, El Rancho and Rio Hondo. The ride was smooth and we were travelling against the rush hour traffic. I was glad to be away from Guatemala City so quickly. My destination was the Coban Ruins just inside the Honduras border. It was a major detour for me, given my tight schedule, but I thought it would be worth two days travelling to see the famous ruins and get a feel for Honduras. We pulled into Chiquimala at 11.30am. It was boiling. I booked onto a 12.30 bus to Florido on the border and sipped a beer at the marketplace. Another hot dusty town, with bustling market and roads roaring with traffic. The males wore white Stetson hats. Despite having a seat, the bus was so crowded that it made no difference. I sat astride the two front seats so I had to get up every time someone got on and off and this happened frequently. Eventually I found a seat at the back undisturbed. As we pulled into each town, children and women would clamber aboard selling cold drinks, tacos, sweets and fruit. It was roasting. I would pass single Q notes through the window to get ice cold fantas in plastic bags with a straw. This meant thatthey kept the bottle for the deposit.
The journey through the Sierra de Espirito Santo to El Florido is rough and dusty. In the few small villages along the way, the people are mostly Chorti speaking Indians, The road was one of the worst I've ever travelled on. Rocks and dust, around steep climbs, majestic forested hills over the valleys, but so sore on the posterior. I thought the two and a half hour trip would never end. The bus driver was in a good mood with a bird like laughter which was contagious. He seemed to spend half his time with his eyes on the passengers he was talking to, and I wondered how we ever got round some bends without hurtling to our deaths.
El Florido is the most rudimentary of border posts. Just a few shacks. I walked to the Guatemalan 'Migration' shack with a hammock outside on the porch and paid a Q10 exit fee. Explaining that I was just there to visit the ruins, he gave me a separate visa on a piece of paper, so that my original 90-day pass was not invalidated. I changed US$20 into Honduras Empezas - about 10 to the US$1 and at the Honduras 'Migration' office next door I paid 10 Empezas entry fee. There was a pick-up truck ready to leave for the village of Las Ruinas de Copan. There was another traveller, Steve, an American who joined me. When they wanted 50 E for the ride, I refused and said I would walk (only 12km!). I walked to a shack and got a drink while they decided on dropping the price. Five minutes later, it was 30 E which was OK by me. About half a dozen of us climbed in the back to start a trek over an even worse road. Just rocks! The pick-up truck kept breaking down going up the hills, so we would all jump out, let the driver get it started again, and jump in. The journey took ages.
Once a small farming settlement, Las Ruinas is now at least as much dependent on the ruins for a livelihood. It is a nice little cobble stoned village with a small plaza and church, surrounded by luxurious vegetation. There were, surprisingly for me after the journey, quite a lot of tourists. A small boy led us to the Copan Hotel - a generous description for a few basic rooms around a courtyard - shared cold water shower and toilet for 30 E each. Steve and I shared a room. He was an odd character, having just spent three months in Mexico and a month in Antigua learning Spanish. Originally from New Mexico, he had never been south. He didn't have a job (last worked for politician who failed to get in at the last election). He seemed preoccupied with how much I had spent on things, as against what he had. I said that I could afford to, so why not? What was a buck here and there? Besides, I only had three weeks and I had a job to go back to.
The ruins closed at 4pm which was when we had arrived. So I explored the village. I was constantly pestered by small boys asking me to rent horses in the morning. It was the first place on my travels in Central America where anyone bothered you. They were friendly enough, but persistent. There was only one major tourist hang-out where you could sit with a beer, so Steve and I argued about everything and watched the place fill up with tourists. With only $20, I didn't bother to eat. I was worn out by the bus riding all day and was in bed by 9pm reading my guide book. I had left the restaurant filling up with the well dressed local youth partying together.
Friday December 22nd
I was up and out by 6am, leaving Steve slumbering away to his "Amore relaxed way of travelling". The locals were up, the horses were ready, but nothing was open. The ruins opened at 8am. I wanted to get there early on the off chance they would let me in, thereby getting a good start for the return journey. I walked two kilometres to the visitors' centre along a dusty road, and looked around. Only a cleaner stirred, but there were guards milling around. I had to wait half an hour until 8am when they let me in. I was the first person in and I didn't see anyone else for an hour. I had the whole place to myself. Parrots flew around. Deer grazed the dew-laden grass. It was very tranquil - a tiny version of Tikal. Completely different. I was able to amble around the Great Plaza at length, taking in each stela's detail, taking endless photos and enjoying the peace and increasing heat. Only when I moved onto the East and West Courts an hour later did I find a couple of tourists. I clambered around the ruins looking for the details highlighted in my book.
By 10am, I had completed a thorough tour and left just as a few groups started to enter. Walking back to the hotel, I found Steve just waking up, grabbed my pack and walked to the tiny museum on the Plaza which displays some of the miscellaneous bits and pieces that were unearthed amongst the ruins. There were some fantastic carvings, as well as jade, obsidian, ceramics and human skulls. I found a pick-up truck to take me back to the border for 20 E. It filled with local youths all carrying machete knives, heading for the jungle. Somehow 25 of us got in the back though I don't know how. They clambered out about half way to the border, laden down with packs, water bottles and huge knives. Everyone smiled. The sun was up and very hot.
Back at the border I paid 10 E to leave Honduras. I had 10 E left. Just made it. Guatemala let me back in for nothing. I had a half hour wait for the bus, and walked across a field to a shack with 'Comida' on it. Inside, a woman prepared me a lovely meal of steak, rice, beans and cauliflower and a Fanta for 15 Q. It was peaceful and I nearly forgot about the impending journey back to Guatemala City. The bus, nearly empty, left the border at noon. It had literally rolled up through the dust, turned around, unloaded and was ready to go. I wondered how the bus drivers could take the heat and dust for so many hours. A local boy dusted off the seats and floors. I had a seat at the front to myself and enjoyed the ride back to Chiquimula. I knew what to expect and saw the grandeur of the scenery much better than the previous day. More farmers with machetes would clamber aboard and have their knives removed by the conductor. Mothers and daughters would also get picked up outside shacks and dropped at others or at the villages. We stopped and started for two and a half hours. The same old road with the same old rocks and dust.
At Chequimula, I had barely got off one bus, walked two blocks to another bus, before we were off again to Guatemala City. In relative luxury, I was able to doze most of the way there. Again at every turn and village, we were swarmed by vendors and their food and drink. Four hours later and we were stuck in Guatemala City's rush hour. It took ages to get into the centre. It was dusk and the streets were packed. I had only seen it early in the morning in 'relative' peace. Now it was a swarm of ants and trucks and buses and cars. A nightmare.
At this point, I had no idea where the centre lay. Despite warnings to the contrary, I wanted to get out of town on a night bus, but did not know what was running, where to, or even where from. As I climbed out of the bus into the crowds, I wondered if I should just find a hotel and hole up, but after 10 minutes of searching bus destinations someone grabbed me and said "what destination?" in Spanish. "Mexico" I answered and he took me to a bus headed for Tecum Uman on the border. It was not the most direct route for me, but it was an escape. So I took it. We would arrive around midnight and I'd have to see what happened then. 40 Q to escape the nightmare of Guatemala City. It was a long slow haul. First coping with rush hour traffic out of the city. Then continuous police blocks, with officials climbing aboard and inspecting my passport and other people's papers. At one point, we were all forced off the bus to have our papers inspected. I have no idea what route we took but the last place I saw a name to was Retalhurleu.
As it was, the bus never reached Tecum Uman. At 1.30am it stopped in some town an hour from the border. I don't know where. I was exhausted and disorientated, because I thought I was in Tecum Uman. The streets were deserted. There appeared to be no bus station. I walked around until I found a central market area, where locals were still milling around. I asked for hotels and was pointed down the street. I got no response from two places and finally found one on the corner. A night watchman let me in and I had a swish room for 50 Q (US$9). Got to bed around 3am after a cold shower and shave. It was a relief to find somewhere to crash. I had crossed Guatemala in one day.
Saturday December 23rd
Up and out by 7.30am, I found a minibus headed for Tecum Uman. I discovered then that I was still an hour from the border. I was down to my last Quizales. For 5 Q I was driven to the border town. It was buzzing - full of locals with bicycles with passenger carts attached to the front. Their local taxi service. I turned down numerous offers and walked the last kilometre to the Guatemalan Migration booth and handed over my last 10 Q to exit the country. Then I crossed a wide bridge which towered over locals doing their washing in the river and approached the Mexican border. At the Migration office, I filled in another entry visa and walked into Mexico. Lines of trucks and cars sat in the heat waiting to cross into Guatemala.
Within a kilometre, I found a bus headed for Tapachula - it left almost immediately. It made a pleasant change to ride on proper roads again and the air conditioning seemed cold and strange after many hours on buses with open windows and dust flying about the bus. Tapachula is the gateway to both the coast and the mountains, with a lovely setting at the foot of the 4000m Volcan Tacana. It is a busy commercial centre. I was dropped at the Cristabal Colon bus terminal and again was lucky to pretty much jump aboard an 11.30am bus headed for San Cristobal de las Cases.
We must have been stopped by the police checks at least half a dozen times. Every stop meant my passport and visa being inspected. It was a long 8-hour bus ride crossing the very scenic Sierra Madra de Chiapas mountains which took an age. Like a cassette tape that has been strewn around, there were many hairpins in the twisting road. The bus swerved left and right and it was impossible to read. It must have been rough because I discovered the bad smell in the bus was because the person in front of me had thrown up. It was the usual stops with local Indian girls selling all types of food and drink. The air conditioning was so cold I wished I had my tracksuit. I did have breakfast - 5 chicken tacos and chillies and a lovely vanilla milk-shake in a huge glass.
We pulled into San Cristobal after 7pm in the dark. There was a bus to Palenque an hour later which I decided to catch. San Cristobal is high up in the mountains - a cold place with an unrivalled provincial colonial charm. It was built by the Spanish as a stronghold against an often hostile indigenous population. The attack by Zapatista rebels in January 1994 was the latest in a long series of uprisings. I walked up Insurgentes Street to the Zocale and Cathedral, where local Indians had stalls of handicrafts. At a local cafe, I had a Torta Cubana - a huge mixture of meat, cheese, salad and dressings. I liked the look of the town and considered it as a place to spend Christmas, but I had to get the ruins at Palenque out of the way first, so it was another bus ride. Since it was dark, I had no scenery to look at. We descended the mountains and picked up speed.
About 5 hours later, we arrived at the bus terminal. It was after 1.30am and I had to go searching for a hotel that might or might not be open. I tried one hotel that was full, but just up the road from the bus station, the Hotel Avenida had food stalls outside and the security guard was up. For 60 pesos I got a basic room and bathroom, but it was somewhere to stay. I was still awake from all the travelling and ended up writing my diary until nearly 5am.
Sunday December 24th
A cockerel outside my window was already crowing by the time I went to bed. I was up and out before 7.30am. I climbed in the back of a packed Colectivos taxi and ten minutes later I was there first in line, behind a couple of Germans. Set in thick jungle, screeching with birds and insects, the ruins are hauntingly beautiful, strongly linked to the lost cities of Guatemala while keeping its own distinctive style. Palenque's style is unique. Superficially it bears a closer resemblance to the Mayan sites of Guatemala than those of the Yucatan, but its towered palace and pyramid tomb are like nothing else, and the setting, too, is remarkable . Surrounded by hills covered in impenetrable jungle, Palenque is at the same time right at the edge of the great Yucatan plain. When you climb to the top of any of the structures, you look out across the dark green of the hills, over an endless stretch of low, pale-green flatland. The city flourished during 300-900 AD but almost everything to see dates from the 7th century.
The ruins are in a national park. Since it was Sunday, it was free to get in. I was able to enter the ruins with no one in sight and get some great pictures. Unlike Copan, the site soon had visitors, but not too many and I explored most of the structures with no one around. At the top of the Templo de las Insripciones, a guide opened up the vault down a steep staircase to the burial chamber which I also had to myself for five minutes I walked along a trail in the jungle, where the birdlife was plentiful - humming birds, a thrush like bird with yellow under carriage, red birds - they were everywhere and it was very tranquil. I walked to the river in the jungle that provided water to the site and came across unexcavated dwellings. It took a good two hours to get round the site and the sun was high and hot. I ended up sunbathing on the Temple del Conde. I chatted to the Germans who were off to Guatemala to do the sights I had seen and they told me about the sites I still had to visit. By the time I left around 10.30am the tour buses had started to arrive.
I now had a choice. Either hang around until 5pm and get a bus to Oaxaca, or leave on a 12.30 bus to Tuxla via St Christobal. I decided to get the earlier bus, sacrificing the sun for all the mountainous scenery I had missed the night before. With my spare time, I cruised Palenque's bustling streets. The bus ride was a repeat performance of a steep climb up into the mountains. Parts of the road had fallen away. The bus driver swung the bus around the bends at great speed and overtook on corners. Buses are definitely the fastest traffic on the roads in Mexico. They stop for nothing. Driving via Ocosingo which was the heartland of the Zapatista rebellion, there were more passport inspections at every police/army roadblock. It was an impressive and beautiful drive, through mountains lush with streams and jungle greenery. There was a quick stop at San Christobal and back into the mountains to Tuxtla Gutierrez 80 km further west. The sun set behind the mountains, and we finally arrived seven hours later around 7.30pm.
The bus station at Tuxtla was packed. It was Xmas eve and everyone wanted to be somewhere. After queuing for half an hour, I discovered that the next available bus to Oaxaca would be 11.30am on Xmas Day. My plan to travel overnight had been foiled and I would have to stay the night. I booked a ticket and attempted to find a hotel. The street names were confusing and I could find nothing around. Eventually I got my bearings and discovered the Plaza Chiapas hotel, recommended in my guide. Indeed for 45 pesos, I got a nice room and a hot shower. Tuxtla Gutierrez is the capital of the state of Chiapas, and is a fast growing, modern and crowded city as well as a major transport hub. Sights downtown are few. The Zocalo, known as the Plaza Ciuica was only a block away from my hotel. It had a Xmas tree in the centre, Xmas lights and fountains with a very restrained whitewashed Cathedral. Its bell tower is one of the leading local entertainments because every hour it plays a different tune while a mechanical procession of the twelve apostles goes through a complicated routine. After my first hot shower since Antigua, I explored the area. At the side of the Cathedral, the Plaza San Marcos was full of life with handicraft markets, foodstalls and last minutes Xmas present stalls. Everyone was out, strolling around, passing the time. Fireworks were being let off. Many people had bottles of champagne to pop at midnight. Children had their photos taken with Father Xmas at the Plaza. Ultimately, there was little to do so I retired to the hotel and watched the movie 'Trading Places' in Spanish. Very frustrating since there were commercials every 5 or 10 minutes.
Monday December 25th - Xmas Day
Since the bus didn't leave until 11.30 and there was nothing much to see, I had my first lie in since starting my travelling. About 10am I ambled out to the Plaza, expecting the place to be deserted, but many shops were open and market stalls were up and running. I'm not sure if Xmas means much to the Mexicans. Maybe they go through the motions. It was certainly a commercial exercise if the TV was anything to go by. I had a large breakfast of Torta Cubana (rapidly becoming my favourite), Hamburgesa Pollo (chicken burger) and two large milkshakes - Papaya and Melon. The bus station was still packed. Xmas Day was for me a 9 hour bus journey west to Oaxaca.
Fortunately it was cloudy so I didn't feel too bad and there was certainly nothing worth hanging around for. Our young Mexican bus driver really knew how to drive fast. Sitting up front, I got to see how close he took corners and how he forced slower traffic out of his way. It was impossible to sleep or read. He played loud Mexican music all the way, and my small pack ricocheted beneath my feet. On a long bus ride, you start to notice how bad your shoes smell! Still, it was glorious mountain scenery, often seen hanging off the edge of the road. More police checks, small dusty towns, Indian women selling me orange juice, a selection of fruit, a cake. Surprisingly, the trip passed pretty quickly, but I suppose I was used to long distance bus journeys by now. I spotted a dead dog and a dead donkey by the side of the road to keep my interest up.
We arrived in Oaxaca in the dark about 8.30pm. The bus station was packed. Walking into the centre about 10 blocks, I found the hotel I was looking for - the Posada Margarita - almost in the shadow of the Santo Domingo church. It was a lovely little place on Calle Labastida. You entered via a courtyard. I got an excellent room with hot shower up on the rooftop with a view of the church. After a shower, I walked down to the Zocola which was a hive of activity. Hundreds of people sat outside cafes, huge areas of market stalls, Xmas lights in a lovely colonial setting. Definitely the place to be. Unfortunately the place was plagued by desolate looking Indian mothers clutching babies, or small children all begging. I walked around the area, inspected the stalls and watched the tradition of eating pancakes from a bowl, then smashing the clay bowl. There was an endless procession of smashing noises. I was glad that I had made the effort to get here for Xmas night.
Tuesday December 26th
It was my first overcast day of the trip. I felt tired, but dragged myself out of bed for another ruin. I was able to keep my room for a second night. Walking down to the Zocola at 8am, locals were cleaning up the night before. Most of the Indians had slept at their stalls and were still asleep as I walked past. The streets were already busy. I walked down to the Hotel Meson del Angel and picked up the 8.30am bus to Monte Alban. It was a steep climb up to the ruins. Cloud cover was low and shrouded all the surrounding mountains around Oaxaca. Tour buses had already arrived but the site was pretty empty for the first hour For the first time on my trip, there were locals trying to sell "antiquities". The setting of the site was indeed spectacular, but the ruins (early Mayan) seemed very ordinary after all I had seen previously.
Caught the bus back into town, which was full of buses roaring up and down the streets. Markets were packed. Many tourists. Walking back to the Zocalo, I changed my last traveller's cheques and found a restaurant offering all you could eat for 18 pesos. I met Ian, a Canadian from Montreal who had been touring northern Mexico for three weeks and had spent a week here. We gorged ourselves on egg and cabbage soup, beans, salad, meatballs, stew, melon and fruit juices. The meal wiped out all of my energy and I spent the afternoon exploring all the markets for souvenirs. I purchased black pottery, bottles of Mescal with worms in the bottom and hammocks. It began to pour with rain and the place became miserable.At least the markets were covered. The food markets were really interesting. Food piled high - fish, meat, fruit and veg. I wondered what happened when it didn't get sold. The amounts suggested that they could never get rid of it. Back in my room, I unpacked everything that I had purchased on the trip and repacked my bag. Somehow I got it all in, but I had a large bag of pottery to drag to Mexico City. Despite the rain, it was nice to have a lazy day.
Wednesday December 27th
Rather than overnight it to Mexico City, I decided to stay at Pueblo en route. I left my pack at the hotel and walked to the bus station to book onto the 4pm express bus. En route, I explored the streets north of the hotel. The storms had passed and the town was swamped in glorious sunshine. Walking down to the Mercado (market), I sat at a counter and had chicken Ensenada for breakfast with the famous mole sauce (chocolate and chillis). The posadas were full of people eating breakfast. It was strange to see a Mexican tour guide bring in about a dozen Mexican tourists to look around. Many Indian women and children attempted to sell me wooden spoons and amber.
At the bus station and found a bus going to Mitla immediately. For a local bus, it seemed strange to sit in an all blue interior. All the windows were blue tinted, there was blue felt everywhere and even a blue TV. Very dark and cool. And all for 3 pesos. We left Oaxaca's suburbs, onto the main road with hills on either side. I had approached Oaxaca in this direction, two days previously. The town of Mitla is some 45km east from Oaxaca. Known as 'Place of the Dead'. Its an unattractive, dusty little place, but it made a change from the towns. I walked through the streets for ten minutes until I reached the Zona Archeological where the small site of ruins lay. The site itself is relatively small (the smallest I had visited) and was overrun by predominately Mexican tourists. Pure Mixtec in style, the palace complexes are magnificently decorated with elaborate stone mosaics. After photographing the ruins with the Spanish church as a magnificent backdrop, I ventured into the artisans market to do my final haggling for souvenirs. I bought a brace of friendship bands, a poncho, another woollen shirt, and a couple of wall hangings. These took a lot of haggling to get down to the prices I wanted and I chatted amicably to the family once the business was done. I was overloaded, and made my way back to the main road, where yet again a bus was waiting.
I was constantly amazed to always find a bus in Mexico and Central America just when I needed it. No waiting was ever necessary. A real boneshaker, we returned to Oaxaca and I caught sight of the famous 'Aubol del Tule' tree at Santa Maria. This mighty tree is said to be at least 2000 years old. It is a good 40 metres round and slightly fatter than it is tall. Suffice to say, that it must be one of the oldest living (and flourishing) objects on earth and that it is a species of cypress that has been virtually extinct since the colonial period. Back in Oaxaca, my big pack weighed a ton and it was a real struggle to get it to the bus station.
I felt like I had bought up most of Mexico. The bus station was packed. I climbed aboard a luxurious coach with acres of leg room, comfortable reclining seats and a video above. It cost an extra 10 pesos to travel in style, but it meant a very swift four hour journey along the new motorway (previously 7 hours). A typical Mexican bus movie started up 'Operation No Passengers Taken' - a crappy American export with Mexican subtitles. I dropped off within ten minutes. We were nearly there when I awoke. The bus station - Central Camionera - was huge and miles out of town. It was 8.30pm and my pack was too heavy to start negotiating local buses. I booked a taxi for 12 pesos which drove me to downtown Pueblo. I was dropped at the Victoria Hotel, where I got a nice clean, spacious room on the second floor for 45 pesos. I walked two blocks to the Zocola to write the diary accompanied by a few ice cold Corona Extra beers with lemon and salt.
Thursday December 28th
Puebla wasn't stirring much, when I took a stroll around 7.30am. Most of the shops didn't open until at least 9am which made a change from most other places I had visited in Mexico. On the Zocalo, I found a cafe open and had a lovely Cubana Tortas and hot chocolate to set me up for the day. Puebla is the Republic's fourth largest city, and on the whole, I found it a disappointment. Massive industry on the outskirts and streets that were permanently clogged with traffic. The great (ugly) Cathedral, the second largest in the Republic, lay off the Zocalo. Nothing to look at from the outside, the interior was decked out in amazing onyx, marble and gilt. Likewise the church of Santa Domingo had an unbelievably lavish orgy of gold leaf and Baroque excess. Other than these, I found little to look at. I decided to check out the suburb of Cholula and lugged my pack a dozen blocks to find a 'Collective Taxi' to take me out to Central Camionera - the huge bus terminal I had arrived at last night - miles out of the city in the northwest. Leaving my luggage at the station, I caught a bone shaker to the ruins of Cholula, 15km from Puebla.
Cholula was, at the time of the Spanish conquest, a vast city of some hundred temples. The Spanish crushed it, and claimed to have built 365 churches here - one for each day of the year. Few remain and it was not overwhelming.Deciding to cut my losses, I caught a bus back to Central Camionera and boarded a Pullman Express coach to Mexico City at 12.30pm. Another lavish coach but since a video played throughout the trip, all curtains were drawn, and I saw none of the country. We arrived at the Terminal de Autobus de Pasajeros de Oriente (TAPU) two hours later. I just wanted to get to a hotel and stow away my gear, so I caught a taxi (a green Volkswagen - the city was full of them). There were acres of crowds and traffic jams. The taxi driver tried to steer me to another hotel, but I had my mind set on the Washington Hotel and told him I had a reservation. He was a grumpy, chaotic driver who honked his horn without any excuse. I was relieved to find a room at the Washington Hotel on 5 de Mayo for 70 pesos a night. Ensuite with a TV and balcony overlooking the streets. It was quite a magnificent sight to pull into the Zocalo with the enormous Cathedral dominating it. The hotel was only a block away. I was home and dry.
My 'Rough Guide' said "At the crossroads of everything in Mexico, sprawls the vibrant, elegant, chocking, crime ridden fascination of Mexico City. Arguably the largest city in the world, its lure is irresistible", but I made sure that it was my last stop, for better or worse. "Above all, its alive - exciting, sometimes frightening, always bewildering - but boldly alive. You can't avoid it, even if the attraction does sometimes seem to be the same ghoulish fascination that draws onlookers to the site of a particularly nasty accident". Estimated at around 22 million, the city's population is the fastest growing in the world (from fewer than 5 million in 1960) and at present rates will reach 35 million by the end of the century. Pollution, churned out by industry, but even more by the chaotic traffic, is trapped in the bowl of mountains, hanging permanently in a pall of smog over the city. Down at ground level, I didn't notice it. It was hot, the sky was blue. But the traffic was ceaseless in torrents along every street. At 2240 metres, there wasn't much oxygen to begin with.
From the hotel, I set out to get my bearings. The Zocalo was packed with tourists - mostly Mexican. A tribe of Indians danced to thundering drums. They were still doing it six hours later. Tiny stalls, beggars and policemen directing traffic predominated. I had run out of money and it took an age to find a money exchange. I decided to see the Museo Nacional de Antropologia which was the main reason for my visit to the city. This meant negotiating the metro. The hardest part is finding a station. There are no signs. I eventually found an entrance in the middle of the Zocola - like an underground bunker. Its a superb modern system, French built, fast, silent and expanding all the time. But the worst part are the crowds - unbelievable at rush hours when the busiest stations in the centre designate separate entries for women and children only, patrolled by armed guards to protect them from the crush. Once you get into the system, there are no maps, just pictographical representations of the line you are on. Before I set off, I had to work out which station was the end of the line I wanted so that I was heading in the right direction. I had to queue to get onto the first train before catching another train to Chapultepec at Chapultepec Park. The park, some 1000 acres in all, has trees, museums, boating lakes, gardens, playing fields and a zoo. Ultimately, its a resort from the pressures of the city for seemingly millions of Mexicans. Most of them seemed to be there when I arrived. I could hardly move for the throng of families. There were no signs and I was anxious to get to the museum since it closed at 7pm. They call the park, the lungs of the city, and like the lungs of most of the inhabitants, its health leaves a lot to be desired. Nevertheless, it still looked better than the streets of traffic.
Finally, I found the park's outstanding attraction - the Museo Nacional de Antropologia, beyond doubt, one of the world's great museums, not only for its collection, which is vast, rich and diverse, but for the originality and practicability of its design. Opened in 1964, the exhibition halls surround a patio with a small pond shaded by a vast square concrete umbrella supported by a single slender pillar around which splashes an artificial cascade. The halls are ringed by gardens, many of which contain outdoor exhibits. I followed the logical progression round from one room to the next. Each gallery is devoted to a separate period or culture.
I walked back to the metro in the dark by the side of a wide road of rushing traffic. A group of armed policemen were starting their rounds of the park and gave me directions. The metro was packed but I negotiated my way back to the Zocalo with no problems. The mass of people was no smaller than when I had left them. Xmas lights dominated the square. The Indian drummers drummed on. When I walked back to the Zocalo around 10pm. It was virtually deserted and all the rubbish from the day was being cleared up. I watched Mexican soap operas in my room which consisted of lots of untypically looking Mexican women wearing short skirts and macho moustached men growling about something.
Friday 29th December
They were already on the street below my room setting up stalls by 6am, but I didn't get up to watch. Finally about 7.30 after more Mexican soap operas, I descended and headed to the Zocalo. The vast paved open space of the Zocalo - properly known as the Plaza de la Constitucion and said to be the second largest plaza in the world after Moscow's Red Square - is the city's political and religious centre. Here stands the great cathedral, the National Palace with the offices of the President, and the city administration - all of them magnificent colonial buildings. But there were also lines of unemployed who queued up around the Cathedral looking for work, each holding a little sign with his trade - plumber, electrician or mechanic.
The Cathedral started in 1573 and rebuilt repeatedly, with its heavy, grey Baroque facade and squat, bell topped towers dominates the square but it has settled over the years into the soft wet ground beneath and has a tilt. Inside, it was seriously damaged by fire in 1967 and still is not fully recovered - the chief impression is of a vast and rather gloomy space. When I entered it, it was a maze of scaffolding seemingly holding the place up. You couldn't see anything and with a service in tow, there was little reason to hang about.
I left the rest of the Zocalo until later and descended into the metro, headed for the Autobuses del Norte terminal. I was surprised to find the metro relatively empty. I thought there would be a rush hour. I had to change at Hidalgo and again at La Raza and there were vast distances to walk between the connections. At the bus terminal, surrounded by stalls, I found a bus company going to Tula de Allende - about an hour and a half northwest of Mexico City. After the Teotihucan power fell, Tula became the next great power to dominate Mexico. But noone is sure how much. I sneaked into the ruins through a hole in the fence and came in the back way.
Back at the Northern Bus Terminal, I returned to the Zocalo on much more crowded trains. I attempted to enter the heavily guarded (by armed soldiers) Palacio Nacional, but had to return to my hotel to get my passport, which was checked in on admittance. Its facade (over 200 metres) takes up a full side of the Zocalo. The overriding attraction however, is the series of Diego Rivera murals that decorate the stairwell and upper storey of the main courtyard. Next door, I took a look at the Templo Mayer excavations but I decided that it wasn't worth the 16 pesos admission, especially since I was short of money again. I took a walk north of the Zocalo to the little plaza of Santo Domingo, one of the city's most wholly colonial. Under the arcades, I found clerks sitting at little desks with portable typewriters, carrying on an ancient tradition of public scribes.
Walking up to the Alameda, I spotted the steel and glass skyscraper of the Torre Latino-Americano which was, until recently, the tallest building in Mexico. The Palacio de las Belles Artes was close by. Designed in 1901, it was constructed in a grandiose Art-Nouveau style of white marble. It had a fabulous interior. Around the back was the Correo Central, the city's main Post Office. Completed in 1908, this had a wealth of intricate detail full of richly carved wood inside. The counter barrier stretch 20ft to the ceilings. I had had enough of the crowds and retreated a cafe for Pollo con Mole sauce (Guachamole and chilli sauce - very green). I needed an early night of Mexican soap operas before my final day in Mexico City.
Saturday December 30th
The last day and I had to pack in as much as possible. I was packed and out of the hotel by 6.30am. Thankfully, I was able to leave everything in a locked cupboard and travel light. The metro was relatively empty as I repeated the journey to Autobus del Norte Terminal. I was headed for the ruins at Teotihucan and a bus left around 7.30am. I spotted my first English travellers sitting across from me with a Rough Guide which said "Teotihucan, is not, on first impression, the most impressive site in Mexico - it lacks the dramatic hilltop setting or bush jungle vegetation of those in the south - but it is a city planned and built on a massive scale, the great pyramids so huge that before their refurbishment one would have passed them without a second glance, as hills. At its height, this must have been the most imposing city ever seen in pre-Hispanic America, with a population approaching 200,000 spread over an area of some 156 square kilometres (as opposed to the four square km of the ceremonial centre). Then, every building - grey hulks now - would have been covered in bright polychrome murals".
When we entered the site, it was virtually empty. It was certainly taxing on the lungs to climb the Piramide del Sol and Piramide de la Luna. But the vistas from the tops of the Pyramids were spectacular. There were the usual merchants peddling antiquities but there was no hassling. Within two hours, I had clambered over everything and photographed it all. The scale made photos difficult and the light was not good. I walked back to the entrance and waited for a bus. The English couple joined me. It began to pour with rain and we got soaked A women invited us under her large stall/restaurant. She gave me a blanket to warm up under. Since we were hungry, we had breakfast. I introduced the couple to Mexican specialities and we had chicken, veg, rice and tortillas. It continued to rain but a bus came eventually.
Unlike the earlier bus which had taken us directly to the site, this one took a local route - a chicken bus, stopping everywhere. It was really bucketing down and the roads were already flooding. We were not taken to the Bus Terminal, but dropped further north. Since the weather was so bad, we grabbed a taxi to the Zocalo. The traffic was piled up and we were stuck in jams with the metre ticking away. Back in the centre, we hopped out into the rain. I had 10 pesos left. I hoped that the money exchange was open. It wasn't and I went to the Monte Carlo hotel where the couple changed my £10 for 100 pesos. They couldn't believe that they had flown from frozen Britain to flooded Mexico, but I assured them that the Yucatan was nice and sunny.
I made a dash for the Zocalo metro and took a journey down to Coyoacan in the south to find the place where Leon Trotsky had lived and been assassinated in 1940. Ir was a very long walk to the museum and I was soaked through. Situated at Viena 45, this house is virtually the only memorial to Trotsky anywhere in the world - his small tomb stands in the gardens. Here the genius of the Russian Revolution and organiser of the Red Army lived and worked in exile, and here Stalin's long arm finally caught up with him, to stifle the last fears of opposition. "The house, with steel gates and shutters, high walls and watchtowers seems at first a little incongruous surrounded by the bourgeois homes of a prosperous suburb, but inside its a human place, set up as he left it, if rather dustier - books on the shelves, his glasses smashed on the desk, and all the trappings of a fairly comfortable ordinary life" (RG). Except for the bullet holes.
I walked back to the metro to get even wetter and retraced my steps to the Zocalo. I had one last stop, recommended by the English couple. I returned to the plaza of Santo Domingo (via a Zocalo virtually deserted in the rain) to visit the Museo de la Medicina. There was an excellent exhibition on torture instruments from Europe, many used by the Inquisition in New Spain. This was their headquarters and it was certainly a grim exhibition. Mexican tourists looked physically sick upon leaving it.
Back to the hotel. I was wet through and freezing. I changed and repacked my bag. Outside I flagged down a green Volkswagen taxi. I had a friendly chatty driver who asked me (in Spanish) where I had been and corrected my Spanish. It was worth 40 pesos (including 5 tip) to get to the airport. There was a long wait to check in (an hour) and it was strange to see English tourists again. I walked to the Domestic Terminal and found a bar (much cheaper than International prices) and wrote the diary for the final time.
