ADVENTURES IN MEXICO, PART I
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When I think of Mexico, I think of vicious, blood-thirsty monkeys trying to kill me.
In fact, it is because of those Death Simians that I have waited nearly 15 years to write about my trip to Mexico. It has taken that long for the nightmares to stop. That, and I am getting to the point where I can hold down solid food again. Those two combined have made it difficult to write about my trip deep into the Mexican jungles until now.
It all started the summer after my 10th grade year of high school. My father, a biologist, was planning a five-week trip to Mexico. I don’t really recall, but I think lizards were the main reason we were going. He decided it might be interesting for two of his children to travel along with him. It wasn’t until we returned back to the states that I realized the reason all four of the children didn’t go is because it would be a lot easier explaining to my mother why two of her children were eaten by Mexican monkeys instead of all four. "Hey, look on the bright side," he could say, "at the least the older two haven’t had major body parts ripped off by monkeys." Let’s see Mom come back with an argument for that one.
We flew into Mexico City, which has approximately 200 billion people, all of whom are driving the exact place you are at the same time, only much, much faster. We were traveling to a small mountain area about 100 miles south of Veracruz, which is about 300 miles south of Mexico City, which is about 1,800 miles south of Minneapolis-St. Paul area (in case you were curious). We opted to rent a car to travel to our destination. The rental car people thought this was hilarious! The notion that they would give away one of their working cars to a family of gringos was riotous! Instead, they pitched my dad the keys to a Volkswagen van that dated back, I’m guessing, to around the 1830s. And, as a bonus, they picked one that had an engine only slightly louder than a Metallica concert, AND traveled at a top speed of about 50 kilometers (what felt like 8 mph).
In no time flat, we were on our way to Veracruz. As we traveled down the open road, I noticed two things: interstates are a very American idea and (b) politicians save a lot of money by simply painting their campaign signs on rocks on the side of the road. We were apparently there during election season, because every rock was covered with spray paint. I later learned that not all were campaign slogans. I don’t know what the others said, because I was 15, and everyone thought I was too young to learn what Paco was doing to Isabella.
About 20 hours after we left Mexico City, we arrived at the small village at the foot of the mountain. Up in the mountains was a small biological center that would become our home for the next few weeks. But first, we had to stop for some staples. And, when you get out of a vehicle – any vehicle – in Mexico and look even remotely American, you will find that the first staple you will be required to buy – assuming you ever want to take another step – is Chiclets, sold from an army of eight-year-old boys who seem to follow you everywhere. I am pretty sure I bought Chiclets from the same kid in Mexico City and the village. (Interesting side note: In this village of maybe 100 people, one of the children was wearing a T-shirt with a WJBF Channel 6, Augusta logo on it. I asked him where he got it, and he would not tell me until I bought Chiclets.)
Once we passed through Chiclet customs, we were allowed to enter a small grocery store. Now, here in the good old Estados Unidos, when we think of a grocery store, we think of a store the size of Salt Lake City carrying any possible food item you could imagine. ("Canned salmon eyes? Aisle six.") This was more of a place to put some food items, because there was nowhere else to put them in the village. And, as a bonus, they were for sale to us! As we browsed, I saw numerous items that, I am pretty sure, were no longer legal to sell in the United States. After a few minutes of shopping, we opted to take the one thing we thought would be fairly safe – a case of sodas – and head on up the mountain.
The mountain road that led to a cabin can best be described as a fatal fall waiting to happen. The road was dirt, and about three feet wide. Somehow, my father managed to navigate the van up the mountain to the station. I think he must have done it on two wheels. Maybe that’s why we all had to sit on the left side.
The station we were staying in was actually quite nice. It was nestled in the jungles of southern Mexico, with dorm-style accommodations for us. There were even hot showers and a water cooler with water imported from the US, so you can’t go wrong there.
Well, it looks like I’ve run out of time for today. Guess you’ll have to wait until next week to read about the attack of the death monkey.
Tune in next week, when we finally get to the part about the monkey, which we could have gotten to today, but SOMEBODY kept babbling about the Mexican road system. If you want a sneak peek, e-mail me at mwg1234@yahoo.com. I won’t give you one, but it will keep my Inbox company.