Mi primera vez en Mexico
No place I’d rather be.
All the initial doubt, fear, and anxiety that once held me back has now dissipated in the wake of being here in San Cristobal. As I read about Santiago’s journey to the Pyramids, and the friendship between himself and his heart, I realized the source is my worry is self-sabotage itself. Why am I afraid to do what I want? Do I think I don’t deserve to follow my own heart? Am I sickened at the thought of explaining myself? Being misunderstood? Judged? Am I afraid of pain, loss, suffering the typical inconveniences or misfortunes of traveling as a lone women? Then I remember the Old King’s words, the universe will always work in favor of those following their Personal Legend. Traveling far and wide is part of mine.
So I pray to the universe, through each leg of the journey. Flight one, on time, rushed layover/immigration/security, made it, to an empty midnight Tuxtla Gutierrez, with a single cab in waiting, I’m on my way. The ride is black and winding, the shadows of the mountains and bright orange cones suggesting the steepness of the road are my only sights.
Vincent pops out from the slimmest doorway in the dark. He waves a familiar childish wave and smiles a familiar giddy smile.
We hug.
He takes my bag and I pay the driver with an ecstatic smile of my own. I’m here.
We climb upstairs, through spiral steps to a mezzanine bridge to another wooden staircase and into my room. Drop things and hug again.
I can’t believe I’m here.
Vincent grabs some beers, Indio and San Dominico, and we lay back on the twin beds, chatting loudly and erratically, our words spilling over each other like the playful wrestle of bear cubs. It feels like no time has past at all, since we left Vietnam lockdown a month before.
3 am rolls around quickly and our conversational positions melt horizontally. Time for bed. I semi-neurotically organize my small piles of things into respective corners of my hostel room, 4 beds for one. I sleepily shower with the realization of no towel, and wrap my cold, wet self in a wool blanket and rest heavily.
In the morning I inch my way down the hall, down the stairs, across the mezzanine, and into the kitchen below, towards the breakfast crowd. Vincent is eating a simple plate of beans. Our eyebrows raise, look at us. Up before 11.
Gabriel, a cute receptionist, with full lips and black plastic glasses, smiles and greets me in Spanish. Mrm, too early. I lazily respond in English. “Oh, you look Mexican,” he asserts. I do. All the more reason to practice, pendeja.
Vincent and I collectively agree to sleep some more before taking on the day and meeting Tayne down the road. We do, and come 1 pm, I collect my small piles from their respective corners and check out. Gabriel gives me that same eye raising look, “You’re going?” I nod, and laugh, with only 12 hours in the hostel. Vincent leads me down the road into a more quaint hotel. The entrance is marked with greenery. The arched ceiling is made of glass and deep brown moldings, with plants of all kinds reaching up hungrily towards the sun. “Buenos Dias,” the receptionist pleasantly chirps.
The room is quaint, quiet, brown and white. A simple bed with white sheets, two tan wool blankets and a pink quilt lays unmade. A desk with a green tartan cloth sits parallel, facing a large window with cheery red curtains. A mirror with a curvy frame lays on the wall behind a microwave and small fridge, the top of which now holds all my jewelry. Vincent collects his things in a whirlwind sweep and I replace his with mine. Time to meet Tayne.
We go out into the sun and my eyes go wide with wonder. The flat-faced clay buildings flow from one to another along cobblestone streets, only distinguished by a stark change in color. We weave uphill towards Tayne’s place and his road is marked by these luscious gem tones. One light cerulean, violet, Naples yellow, textured buildings all leading to the next up the hill towards the open courtyard of Iglesias de Guadalupe. Tayne calls from a Tayne-sized, rectangular hole in the wall behind spidery thin black bars, “Hola!” He wears a sage green, wide-brimmed banditto hat and black ray bans, and beneath his mustache is his big, charming smile.
We step into his place and inside is an open, kitschy shared living-dining space. On the far left side is a metal spiral staircase leading through a small hole to the second floor, and along the left wall is a fireplace, lined with Ed-Ed-Eddy-esque wooden plank faces on the mantle. On the back wall sits a wide pastel green couch, coffee table, wooden crate situated upright on its side as a chair, a lima-bean bean-bag chair, and a black basket seat, all huddled facing each other in pensive furnished conversation. On the far right wall sits a wooden park table with matching wooden benches, leading to the hole that is the kitchen. Hand painted tiles spot the walls and counters, with ample ingredients and spices are laid throughout.
The boys throw on their matching ponchos and banditto hats and grin in unison. Fucking characters. We instinctively call Lindsay and head to the rooftop. Up a set of unvarnished wooden steps and across a stucco courtyard is wide open communal space. Aloe plants and cactuses sit along the edges, soaking up the sun. Spinning around 360 is the mountain town across the way, dotted with little square houses with little black windows, and orange tiled roofs, strung together in lines. Green mountains stand proudly in the hazy distance, meeting the massive white clouds above, with no structural blockages from our short, colorful town.
Lindsay shouts at the sights from the face of Tayne’s iPhone as we share experiences from our opposing world positions. The sun plays hide and seek through the epic mass of clouds, teasing us with heat and shade. Layers are the only way in San Cris. Lindsey wishes us well and we go on our way.
As we walk back into town through the square and walking streets, indigenous women and their children don yak-skin skirts, with tights beneath, breathable and warm. Their round, terra-cota faces and sleek, thick, dark hair shine in the sun like dolls. Babies are increasingly red in the face against the direct heat, with small dark eyes squinting above their precious, chubby cheeks.
We stroll towards the square where the Iglesias Historia sits at the center of the city. The front of the surrounding buildings are true facades, flat and seemingly propped up to shield its contained mysteries, like that of a Spaghetti Western set in real life. The walking street is lined with outdoor bars, taquerias, and shops selling vibrant handmade goods of all kinds. Our eyes wander in all directions and appetites. We stop in a tiny pale blue taqueria, only selling tacos, tortas, and tostadas, all carne puerco. The waitress serves tiny take-away tubs of salsas on a tray de todos colores. Una verde, rojo, y naranjada, of varying spice strength. The boys and I (They're 30, whatever) start spitballing en espanol with the help of our dirty word dictionary, laughing between bites of carnitas, learning the origin of putas, pendejos, y cabrones. I throw back sweet Horchata, my heart opening up with each sip of delectable cinnamon leche. Soon we’re back on the road, now in search of helado, to satiate Tayne’s unrelenting sweet tooth. He leads to a dark store front, only containing three large, open face, glass covered freezers. Inside was the bottomless stack of sabores, all colors and frutas represented on a stick, including mango, coconut, avocado, salsa, and hot chili. Tayne picks out a fresh strawberry sickle, deep berry red with the seeds blended in. We walk uphill to the micro-cafe, Casa Jasmine, an Viet-Indonesian fusion place owned by a gang of international friends. Afif from Indonesia, Amita from Vietnam, Abdul from Mexico, and Mitch from New Zealand work together to bring forth a unique combination of flavors and culture to this colorful city. (And all of them are quite unique, and very adorable, in their own right.) Vincent had met Amita at a party 4 years prior, realizing she too is from Sai Gon, where we all originally met. She welcomed me warmly, with a hug and free spring rolls with fresh, grainy peanut sauce. Who knew I would be reunited with Vietnamese food in Mexico? I note the coincidences, similarities in the land and culture. Both market cultures, cash economies, drugs and alcohol used loosely in the street, friendly brown faces, long histories kept alive in tradition, delicious, fresh food, and an organic ruggedness to the world around.
We sat outside in the sun/shade, where Afrodelica, a local afrofunk group played trombone and bass on the side of the road. The beats flowed through the street, drawing the staff out for a dance break. Abdul, the Mexican-Muslim cowboy, shook his hips with effortless, easy rhythm, and Amita, mi pequeña bonita, jumped in with a twirl. Spiritual conversations of all kinds unraveled openly like I’ve never experienced. Ben, a Canadian e-commerce consultant, talked to me about human design and guessed at our astrological charts. I read Tayne’s chart aloud, myself. A 6 foot 7 inch traveling healer and rapper named Te’Devan Kryvan (also from New Jersey, of all places), came round and talked to us about chi, psychism, and bi-locating gurus, busting from the ground in flames. Hardcore stuff.
Never have I been in a place with such palpable, spiritual energy that can breathe so freely in the light of day. San Cristobal, home of the Mayan highlands, is aptly named for all its magical wonder.
We sat and talked, sharing coco rice and anecdotal musings, until the sun was coming down and the breeze strengthened. The boys and I walked back downhill and happened upon a tented market, subtle at its entrance, but a hidden labyrinth of treasures inside. Vincent bought a wide brimmed banditto hat that rivaled the width of Tayne’s, in his color of choice; navy blue. I tried a burnt orange number but decided against it, wishing to blend in a bit more than it might allow. I talked to the boys about stones and their metaphysical uses, stumbling upon real gems of gems, but hesistating to buy, with my limited grasp of pesos yet. We found our way out, back to the walking street and into the night. The sun’s absence presented an intense cold I had been warned about but still shocked me. We huddled between the crowd as it filled up with nightlife seekers. A change of layers was needed, so we stopped at our temporary homes.
The unusual governing laws of San Cris start to become clear; 1) detours will present themselves in some form, whether in the form of an odd conversation, or for an opportune stop for chocolate and other treats, and 2) if you’ve seen someone once, you’re bound to see them again in 24 hours.
After I change into my weather conscious night fit (a stylish black top with fluffy flamenco sleeves, borrowed from my mother, and deep green zebra printed jeans with long socks and doc martins), Vincent meets me outside and we walk to the bodega for 40’s. Wasting time, we take a seat on the step directly outside to pop them open with my rainbow, bottle-opening, key chain (Unsurprisingly, a gift from Vincent himself). We chug along the way to Tayne’s roof for a puff to kick off the night. The roof is tremendously dark and dangerous, offering no real protection from those inebriated or clumsy, from falling right off. One of Tayne’s housemates comes up with a J of his own, and talks to us about his tantric techniques (without the stuffy need for any formal introduction or inquiry), before trailing back off into the dark. Only the usual in a place like this.
We head out, freshly faded, for my only goal of the night; tequila, tequila, y mas tequila, por favor.
As I mentioned, a detour is inevitable. We stop in Vincent’s hostel so he can retrieve his lotion (undeniably sensitive skin that one) and a relaxed, reclined young man on the couch outside his room stops us with the irresistible question, “You guys have time for a story?”
We sit around the empty dark of the lobby and tune in, unaware what would unravel. The young man, with a permanent broad smile, is named Daniel, and recently had a life altering experience with psychedelics that was so severe, his parents have moved into his hostel room, to keep him safe and well, alive.
Daniel tells us with enchanted, bright eyes about the human body. “We are machine learning,” he says with intensity. His conviction is contagious and I lean in. “I wandered the woods, stripping down into nothing,” he admits without shame. “I wanted to be as close to nature as one could possibly get. I wanted complete freedom.” It turns out Daniel was naked in the woods for 3 days, which is what prompted his family from snatching him back into the domesticated and civilized world.
Eventually the darkness of the night called us back out, and Daniel turns back to his room, unable to leave again it seemed. But he was happy to lay back down, with a satisfied smile, if only for himself.
We headed back out onto the main walking street, Real de Guadalupe, lined with specialty shops, mezcalerias, pulquerias and treats of all kinds. We stopped for tequila there, tequila here. My Spanish quickly recovered and Tayne and Vincent gassed my ego, impressed by my miraculous, mysterious usefulness. It wasn’t that good at the time, but better than I thought, and their praise warmed me, and infused me with confidence.
The night became blurry, shot after shot. All I knew is I was stunned to be here, in another country I’d never been, so soon after leaving Vietnam behind, where these guys kept me sane. And how right it felt, to give in to that desire, take that plunge and leave America again. How welcoming Mexico was, offering community, culture, inspiration, a new life, all in 24 hours.
Bienvenidos a una nueva vida…otra vez.
Comments