Micheladas in Mexico

I tried to keep my sleepy, drooping eyelids open on the long, bumpy drive through deserted villages and plantations to the Mexican border, for my last view of Guatemala. But weeks of new and exciting experiences, conversing in two languages, desperately trying to get my head around the mindset and medicine of another culture, have left my head spinning and my brain exhausted. A disconsolate lancha ride across a muddy river, from one desolate frontier town to another, took me from Guatemala to Mexico in two minutes flat. No time for gushy, soppy goodbyes, though that wouldn´t be very British now, would it? I do feel sad though, that whilst I have had a short chance to explore a bit of the Guatemalan culture and countryside, that however much time you have in a place, whether it be days or months or years, it never seems quite enough. Perhaps that says something about human satisfaction, and the need to achieve something in a place, to leave our mark like cats on a territorial tree.

My sombre, pensive mood was deepened by the oppressive mugginess of Sothern Mexico, breaths caught dead in an atmosphere as warm as my own moist lungs. And for this, I was thankful I was not in a crammed, oxygen-depleted Guatermalan collectivo, and instead in a modern, clean, spacious air-conditioned Mexican version, on the way to Palenque. I would never consider Mexico rich, but compared to its´Central American neighbours, it is far more modern (though this, I have discovered, means no less organised...).

The town of Palenque felt like a strange reincarnation of Flores, a few years down the line, already gentrified (or ´gringofied´, I suppose). Here, the neat promenades were finished, tour agencies bustling and restaurants thriving. My tired senses were reawoken anew, a lively marimba band playing in the main square whilst large Mexican families enjoyed comidas tipicas whilst the children laughed and danced in that special, unhindered way reserved for unembarrassed toddlers. I sat in a nearby restaurant with my first michelada, a spicy, refreshing cross between a beer and a Bloody Mary (cerveza spiced with tomato, chilli, lime and black pepper and salt).

I discovered what seemed to be my ultimate tour - bus rides to the Palenque ruins, to cool off at nearby waterfalls and ending up in my next destination, San Cristobal de las Casas - for only a few pounds more than the direct bus there.

So the next morning, we set off to the much talked-of Mayan ruins. I wasdn´t sure what to expect, having been to Tikal so recently. I wondered with a guy called Tim whether it was possible to become ´ruined out´, as you can become ´churched out´in Europe or ´templed out´in Asia. We agreed that you can become accustomed to a type of scenery, or building, but that you never get over the wonderment or beauty, justy the shock of such. Shock can only arise from the unexpected, the unbelievable, the never before seen. It is much the same with physical shock: people only begin to recover when they accept what they have seen or experienced was real, and that they have survived. But it never leaves for good, flashbacks or memories forever plaguing (or in the case of the tourist, delighting) the beholder.


Palenque was swarming with tour groups, even early in the morning, and similar to the town, is a version of Tikal a few years and a few thousand dollars down the line. Perfectly gravelled walkways snake neatly between the temples, which seem a little less magical for their ease of viewing, but which none the less are magnificent. These walkways are edged by a continuous string of sellers tidily laying out rows of jewelerry, maskd, carvings and etchings, sadly drawing tourists´eyes from the real attraction to the more immediate gratification of gifts. I began to enjoy Palenque more as I searched out the smaller, crumbling structures hidden deeper in the jungle and a little off the beaten track, crumbling sandy rocks seemingly growing themselves out of the twisted knotted roots and soft furry mossgripping to its sides. And some incredibly detailed artefacts and freizes have been preserved in the museum, the Mayan artists putting many more modern painters to shame for their detail and accuracy.

After the sweltering heat of Palenque, we were all glad of the cooling jets of spray hurling off the caverns at Misol-Ha waterfalls, and the tempting aquamarine and azure pools of water at Agua Azul. This was another reincarnation of Guatemala, I feel like I haven´t quite left it behind, the glassy shallow pools reflecting those at Semuc Champey. The difference in Mexico is the crowds: they have had a few more years to advertise to tourists, and more of the locals can afford weekend trips.

Happily relaxed after reading with the water gently washing over me, myself and a few others were dropped off at the ominous ´crossroads´for the final leg of our tour, the bus to San Cristobal. Here is where my cunning tour fell apart, and explains my earlier comment on organisation - the bus didn´t show. And instead of doing something sensible about it, the tour guides stood there blankly and dumbly, blindly panicking but pretending to us there was ´no problema´. As the lighht started to fade, we suggested they ring the bus company. We suggested they send one of their minibuses back to Palenque, and use the other to take those of us that were going on to San Cristobal. We suggested they find us a hotel for the night. And then we suggested they gave us some compensation. Instead, we stood there, at the crossroads, doing nothing. And then their (and my) bacon wasd saved, by the bus showing up, only an hour late. Arriving in a new town at 11.45pm, on my own, with nowhere to stay, was hardly ideal, but of course the tour company got away with it, it was ´no problema´to them once I was packed on the bus. This made me wonder where human responsibility comes from; at home, I would have demanded some compensation, or that they ensured I had somewhere to stay when I arrived, or at least the company would be required to have in writing something disqualifying them from responsibility. But here, they just shrug their shoulders ambiguously.

Our responsibility is our own. It is our expectation of others and what they should or should not do for us that leads to ridiculous health and safety rules, to our lives being hindered and all the excitement of exploring our world for ourselves taken out by rules and regulations. This is not to say we shouldn´t look out for others, or to be protected when necessary; but with the right information, we should be free to make our own informed decisions. I guess the reason for all the regulation is that some people are not in the position to take such responsibility for their own, and as such it falls to the state to do so. But we need a better way of judging who is, and is not capable of consenting themselves and putting themselves or taking themselves out of risky situations, not only in the medical world, but in day to day life.

Some things seem to happen for no reason, to be out of our control, and this is what leaves us feeling a little frightened, angry and out of our depth. But as Stephen Hawking said, ´I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road´.