Climbing towards the crater
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
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.
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
Mazatlan
There is a picture from Maztalan that still fills my mind, upon the desire for recollection, with all the vivid wonder that it held as it first appeared before my eyes. It is a picture of a man. He is sitting on a bench in the main plaza to the south of the cathedral. His eyes water with sparkling, drunken tears, that never gather in sufficient quantity to fall slowly down his cheeks, but form a shimmering glaze in front of deep brown eyes and collect in tiny vertical pools where his eyelids meet. If he blinks I feel sure that the tears, for lack of alternative escape, will fall steadily down his face, and he will appear to passers by as though silently, happily crying. But I never see him blink. He has a thick, black beard; his skin is rough beyond his years and appears dry and old and worn out by the sun. Only, when he smiles, he reveals perfect white teeth in the darkness of the drunken night. His clothes are torn, and the lines of his calloused hands are exaggerated with the ingrained dirt that clings to them. Yet in the darkened night, from this bench beneath a tree that repels the yellow glare of street lamps, his brilliant teeth and his drunk-kind eyes sparkle as he holds out a plastic bottle of mezcal.
I take the bottle, flip open the plastic lid with my thumb, and take a sip of the liquid, warmed by the tropical night. Its warmth runs down my throat and lightly burns. It bursts in dazzling flames, and ignites small shivers that run from my shoulders, and causes me to shake. The man´s hands move slowly toward the sky, back and forth, his palms up turned, as he indicates that I should drink more. A greater quantity of the warm golden liquid once again makes my body shudder and a smile spreads wide under the man`s thick black beard as I thank him and he takes the bottle back.
I take the bottle, flip open the plastic lid with my thumb, and take a sip of the liquid, warmed by the tropical night. Its warmth runs down my throat and lightly burns. It bursts in dazzling flames, and ignites small shivers that run from my shoulders, and causes me to shake. The man´s hands move slowly toward the sky, back and forth, his palms up turned, as he indicates that I should drink more. A greater quantity of the warm golden liquid once again makes my body shudder and a smile spreads wide under the man`s thick black beard as I thank him and he takes the bottle back.
Javier, looking down over Zacapu
Friday, 24 September 2010
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