The tropics again, and the Mexican mainland

The next day I cycled in the tropics for the first time since Indonesia and the heavy wet sensation of the air, and the thick, dark green of the luxuriant undergrowth, the crashing brown waters of streams, and the languid movements of people carrying woven baskets of various foodstuffs, instantly made me think of Asia.

When I arrived in the small town of Acaponeta however, all thoughts of Asia disappeared. A quiet, old church caught the last light of the sun and glowed yellow in front of a deep blue sky. Children ran around joyously tormenting the pigeons, clapping explosions of wings into the air, and running among the small pecking heads as soon as the scattered breadcrumbs had enticed them. Delighted in their game, and apparently never tiring of its novelty, the ecstatic cries of four year olds, that have discovered new abilities, allowing them to control nature, and make it dance in terror, filled the golden plaza, as the evening shadows grew.

Old men sat on benches under trees. Some held cigarettes, and let curling waves of smoke tiredly lick the air, and others sat with arms folded tightly against vice. People sat on high stalls at taco stands, pouring salsa, and sprinkling coriander over the small round disks of tortillas, drinking sweet rice milk or Coca-Cola with straws.

An old lady shuffled slowly across the expanse of stone, punctuated here and there with a fountain, or a raised flower bed. She leaned on a metal frame, and her hands shook with the effort of each small step. I watched her slow journey across the plaza, and imagined her as the children scattering the pigeons in the sky, as the teenagers eating ice cream, and as the parents standing over the pigeon tormentors. I thought of all the sunsets that had fallen on her paths across this plaza, and how each one for the last several years had shone its light on a back slightly more bent, on movements more difficult, more awkward and slow. I watched and it was easy to conjure her life around this plaza, with all of my presumptions and generalizations staining the picture with untruth, but as I watched the children I couldn´t imagine them as her. Nor could I think of my own movements becoming so laborious and tired. As I watched her wearisome efforts shuffle out of sight, everything about her seemed as far away as death.

The last clouds turned to magical shades of purple, light greens and yellow in the sky,and laced their intricate patterns across the blue expanse. Electric lights shone gently from lampposts, the old men still sat, smoking and not smoking, and the parents began their efforts to tear their children from the birds. I too, grew tired of watching, and walked away along cobbled, peaceful streets.

The next day, too, I found myself sitting in the centre of another small town, the scene an exact replica almost of this one. And each day more the same tranquil predictability saw the last light of the sun, as I climbed out of the sticky coastal regions towards the Mexican Central Highlands.

From 10,000 ft