The Peninsula 2 & Belize

So, it's after sunset, and I'm sitting in this dingy little picnic-table fish-fry place just off the beach in Caye Caulker, Belize, and I'm munching on delicious red snapper, and gulping down my third rum-punch, and sweating, and wringing my hands and thinking:

Goddammit's been two weeks since I've written anything! I've got so much to say, how will I ever get it all out? Bah, to hell with big thorough entries, and to hell with expensive internet - if I don't write now, I'll never catch up with myself!

So, I did what anyone in my position would do - I emptied my glass, ordered another for the road, and made for the nearest internet cafe to throw-down this rag-tag entry in the hopes of bringing you all up to speed with respect to where I've been and what I've been up to these past few weeks. A lot has happened, so I'll waste no further time on introductory remarks.

(Except the time it takes to say that I have missed you all the past little while, and I flatter myself to think that maybe a few of you have poked around this website of late, and perchance even thought: Hmm... I wonder why Joe hasn't written? But I digress.)

I left Campeche for Merida - the capital city of Yucatan state - shortly after having written my last entry. Being as I am, without guidebook, I had little to no idea what I would find there, and was thus pleasantly surprised to find an incredibly beautiful colonial city full of history and culture - certainly my favorite on the Peninsula.

As a testament to the culture of the place, there happened during my short visit, to be a Salvador Dali exhibit hung at one of the many art galleries in town, which I happily viewed. Cameras were not permitted in the exhibit, but I did my best to surreptitiously capture a few of the more interesting paintings in photographic form for your viewing pleasure. You'll pardon, I hope, the necessarily clumsy framing of the following few photos, which, as always, you can enlarge by clicking upon them.



On my second day there I met a man in the town square, and wound up staying with him free of charge at his hostel-to-be for the remainder of my trip. He was a kind fellow - a Mexican of some thirty years - who introduced me to a few of his friends, and showed me around town to a few local sites - most notably a set of beautiful cenotes or underground sinkholes. I suppose I'll let the photos do the talking on this one.



I was scheduled to meet Jaz in Cancun on the 16th of March, and so left Merida on that date, and met her at the airport. Now, Cancun is infamous enough among Mexican cities as a raucous tourist destination, but it is particularly well-known as a hub for a unique species of tourist known affectionately among Mexicanos as spring-breakers. For those of you who don't know, these are predominantly young folks of a particularly saucy persuasion who fly into Cancun for a few weeks each year to drink their faces off, shout obscenities, clog the white-sand beaches that hem them into their high-rise hotels, and indulge in all other manner of debauchery before promptly skipping town when the school-bell tolls anew.

Suffice it to say that I had not planned on coming to Cancun, let alone on coming in the height of spring break, but it was the cheapest place for Jaz to fly into, and the best timing both of us could muster, so there we were. I had initially planned to nab her and hit the road a.s.a.p., but we wound up spending three nights there all told. Why so long? Well I'll tell you - shortly after tripping through the so-called "hotel zone" we got the idea that it might be fun to stick around and do our best to blend-in with the more overtly toursity tourists - maybe even do our best out-tourist them? This was just novel enough an idea for me to accept, and so we got ourselves into gear, signed up for the nearest all-inclusive full-day tour we could find, and off we went, to Chichen Itza, as it happens - one of the largest and most famous of Mayan cities, located a few hours inland from Cancun. Again, I think the photos do a pretty good job of encapsulating this event.

Once we snapped out of it and realized we'd better keep moving, we headed on down the line a little to a portion of the strip known as Playa Del Carmen, where we thought it might be easier to find some peace and quiet. As it happened, we were quite mistaken about this, and found only more of the same: big shiny tourist trap streets full of Haagen-Dazs ice-cream parlours, McDonald's and Starbucks coffee shops. A few days of playing cheezy tourist is one thing, but this was getting out of hand. The beaches however, were very nice, if shockingly full, and we were too tired to keep moving right away, so we decided to pause for a few days and soak up a bit of the the punishing Carribean sun. Each of us earned burns here that would haunt us for days to come.

Next stop was another hopefully quiet place - a little set of sea-side Mayan ruins known as Tulum. Jaz and I had heard this was a nice cheap place to chill out and enjoy the white sands and crystal blue waters of the Carribean, and it was, but still quite full, and we paid too much to stay at the only place we could find vacant. But by this time we had grown weary of trying to be stingy in a strip of towns that seemed to forbid it, however, and so yielded to the high prices, and enjoyed every minute of it.

After a few days there, we began to set our sights on Belize. We dropped a few couchsurfing lines, and although Belize is a quite sparsely populated country (with not much more than 300,000 people total, only 40 of whom are willing to host couchsurfers) managed to find a couple of potential hosts. So, after bussing down to the lovely city of Chetumal in southern Quintana Roo, where we spent two nights in a quiet little guesthouse, and did our best (and failed) to find some rare contact lenses to replace the one Jaz had lost in the sands of Tulum, we headed into Belize, less one eye's worth of vision on a particularly sunny day in mid-March. (After Jaz lost her contact, there was some talk of an eye patch, and she even went so far as to fashion one out of an expendable bathing suit, but chickened-out shortly thereafter.)

There was a touch of trouble at the border - despite having traveled in Mexico for three months, I had not once been asked to pay any entrance fee, or purchase any type of visa or tourist card, nor had any government officials ever asked to see my passport. I had simply walked across the border in Tijuana, and gone about my business. This fact was interpreted by the Mexican border officer, however, as an "evasion of immigration" on my part, and I was forced to pay a small fine of 100 pesitos. No big deal.

While we were sorting this out however, our temperamental bus-driver decided that we were taking too long, and promptly threw our belongings into the street, driving off without us, despite our earnest protestations. Thankfully, we were able to hop a cheap rickshaw ride through the neutral zone between the Mexico and Belize borders and shuffle through immigration there in time to board our bus once more. Our driver was less than pleased to see us again, but let us on without a fuss.

I don't quite know what I expected of Belize, but it has treated us very well thus-far. Far more rural, for one thing - due in-part to the aforementioned modesty of population - but also a huge cultural shift. There is simply not enough time to include a satisfying account of Belizean culture here, but points of note include radical shifts in language (more English and a healthy splash of Creole), food (new and different spices, deep-fried breads and delicious savory meats), music (reggae, and a bit too much Sean Paul), and dance (basically pelvic-thrusting and dry-humping).

We have been here a number of days now, but only stayed in a few places. Our first stop was a quaint little town named Orange Walk, where we surfed with a sweet young Jewish fellow from Washington D.C., named Jacob who taught us a bit about the Peace Corps, and provided us with tons of information about Belize, and pointed us toward our second stop - Crooked Tree.

As it happens, we were passing through this tiny village at one of two particularly special times of year: Tilapiafest Tilapia is a small and delicious fish native to the waters surrounding Crooked Tree. During the festival it is harvested en masse and prepared in a variety of different ways, each delicious. Incidentally, we also enjoyed some turtle meat, and eggs at this time, and enjoyed the various other celebratory activities of the day, namely, beer-drinking, mud-bog/tractor-pulls, and highly provocative dance competitions involving some far-too-young members.


Despite our initial discomfort at the sight of toddlers being taunted into bump-and-grinding before a screaming crowd of family and friends, it ought to be noted that a good time was had by all. In fact, apart from a few surprise midnight visits from some curious locals - both puctured below, the latter, I'll have you know, was curious enough to crawl across my naked chest - Jaz and I quite enjoyed our short time in this tiny place.


Since then, we have moved on through Belize city from whence we caught a water taxi to Caye Caulker where we remain for the moment. It is a beautiful and tiny island, well-geared to looking after tourists, to be sure, but not of the offensive variety that plague the northern half of the Mayan Riviera - there are no spring-breakers here, and the waters are warm and clear.

Highlights so far have included snorkeling with tropical fish, eels, and sting-rays, biking around the island, and kayaking among mangroves crawling with cauliflower-looking jellyfish. There are loads of birds, and the food is great, and I am reading lots and enjoying the delicious local stout beer. In short, life is good these days, and again, I regret having taken so long to tell you all about it. Thanks for waiting!

So, we're all set to leave the island tomorrow, and have only a few more days in Belize before heading down into Guatemala. With luck there will be some place to stop and throw some photos up before then. I miss you all, and I hope life is moving along well - talk to you in April!

The Peninsula 1

Hidden somewhere within the cobblestone gridwork of streets that crisscross through the heart of old Campeche, the capital city of the Mexican state of the same name, there can be found a quirky little guesthouse called "Hostel del Pirata" - Pirate's Hostel. From the street, it doesn't look any different from the rest of Campeche's uniform pastel-colored concrete facades, but its dingy interior is elaborately decorated with all manner of bucanneer paraphernalia - statues of salty seamen leering from out their one good eye, smirking skulls, cannons, maps, as well as rusty old cutlasses and rifles all mounted on plaques - memories of the city's turbulent history.

Since its founding in 1504 by Spanish conquistadores directly atop a Pre-Columbian Mayan settlement, Campeche was subject to repeated attack by marauding pirates from all over the world - including a good many famous ones - until, in 1668, it was eventually forced to begin constructing a vast series of fortress walls encircling the entire heart of the city. Although the years have taken their toll, many of the original fortifications remain, and have been preserved by the Mexican government, a fact which, along with the impressively preserved colonial architecture of the city, earned it the status of a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1999. Whatever else, it's certainly a pleasant place to wander around, as I discovered today, the waterfront promenade all outfitted with old canons and statues. But I am getting ahead of myself here - let me back up a little.

So, after a few days of humming and hawing in San Cristobal about whether or not I ought to travel up into the Mexican peninsular states of Campeche, Yucatan, and Quintana Roo, I eventually decided to go for it, and snagged a bus down out of the cool central mountains of Chiapas, and into the sweltering air of its northern jungle. I was none to keen on dwelling there long - I had coastal life on my mind - but I had heard too much about the ancient Mayan ruins of Palenque to skip it.

It was a long and bumpy ride on an overcast day, and I was pretty bagged by the time we rolled in. I didn't have much of a plan, and so was quite happy to tag along with a motley gang of travellers whose noses were almost too deep in their guidebooks to notice me. They seemed to have some idea where they were going however, which was more than I could say. We shared a ride into the jungle, and quickly found that there was no shortage of accomodation to be had. I settled on a scummy little place with cheap dormitory rates and lots of little kids running around barefoot in the soft loam of the jungle floor, one of whom showed me to my room and took my money.


Evening was coming on and there was no power in the rooms so I stowed my things and made for the modest open air restaurant/lounge area where two obese Mexican women were whipping up cheese-stuffed chilly and shitty coffee. I sat writing for a time until a pair of travelers came by and sat down at an adjacent table with a gaggle of Mexican children at their heels and pulled out a deck of cards. The former were doing their best to teach the latter how to play something they called Ocho Loco - Crazy 8s - in desperately poor Spanish - mostly pointing and head-shaking, really. Now my Spanish is far from impressive, to be sure, but it was more than these folks had to work with, and it wasn't long before I had joined the game, and was doing most of the teaching.

The two travellers - a young woman from Israel, and a young man from northern Alberta, of all places - were pleasant company and we three had every kid in the place crowding around and alughing in no time. They were quick learners and were soon winning rounds as often as any of us. (We would repeat this round of games again for as long as I stayed there, much to the joy of the younger players.)

After supper we three retired to a nearby jungle bar kind of place where there was some live music, but I was spent and didn't last long. Back in my candle-lit dorm-room, I splashed a little water on my face (and my feet incidentally - the sink was not outfitted with any plumbing, and so the tap-water, after passing through my fingers then fell unhindered onto the bathroom floor soliciting a surprised laugh from me, I'll tell you) and crawled between the not-quite-moist sheets of my little bed and waited for sleep.

I don't remember it coming, but it must have for I do rememeber waking up, and probably will never forget it, to be honest. At first, I had no idea what had rousted me, until it came again - a great deep whooshing roar that my still half-asleep mind could only imagine to be the fiery breath of some huge dragon. Gaining a little more of myself, I strained my ears hoping it would come once more... and again, loud as an air-raid siren, this great fiery wave of a roar, punctuated this time by a kind of gruff primal barking sound. I would have sworn the hounds of hell were just outside my shoddy wooden door. Over and over it came in steady rhythmic waves, for what felt to me like hours, and I lay there dozed and bewildered, turning in my sweaty sheets. I don't know how I ever returned to sleep, but the next thing I remember was waking to the green rays of the sun through foliage, a little wet, but well-rested.

I later learned that the creatures responsible for this incredible sound were none other than the howler monkeys native to the jungles of Latin America. I had had no idea that I was entering monkey country, and having never heard it before, was quite unequipped to identify this otherworldly sound. A little online research later I was not shocked to learn that howler monkeys are widely considered to be one of the loudest animals on earth - and unanimously the loudest land animal (according to the Guiness Book of World Records no less). Although relatively small - adults range from about 50-100cm tall - their cries can be heard clearly from over three miles away! Now imagine having a gang of these suckers singing you to sleep from the canopy overhead. It was something else, I can tell you.

That morning I had planned to visit the ruins of Palenque, and after a quick breakfast, caught a ride into the national parklands, and ultimately to the site. While not as big as some other well-known Mayan sites, Palenque is far larger than any site I had ever visited, and archaeologists are nowhere near having explored it completely. As maps around the site demonstrate, vast stretches of the once grand Mayan city-state still lie buried in the dense jungle that swallowed it whole after its abandonment sometime in the 8th century.


But despite having lain dormant so long, the site still exhibits an imposing character, with its huge terraced buildings, and impressive central palacio, not to mention some of the finest existing sculpture left behind by the Maya. I had allotted the entire day to its exploration, and spent many hours wandering across sizable plazas, through what must have once been bustling neighborhoods, and exploring hidden jungle temples all wrapped in the veiny roots of trees nearly as ancient as the buildings they squeezed. The huge buttressed trunks of the trees yielded shady nooks large enough for a man to squat down in, and I confess to having done so several times, to sit for a moment or two in the music of the jungle.


Winding paths and dizzyingly steep staircases led visitors to various locations on the site through dense swaths of jungle, past beautiful waterfalls and across hanging wooden bridges. Although there were quite a few tour groups being paraded through the main plazas, and overtop the larger more impressive structures, they didn't seem to be as interested in the more remote corners of the site, which meant that I essentially had the run of the place for the better part of my visit. Unfortunately, my camera quit before I did, but I did manage to capture some of the beauty and majesty of the site. I hereby recommend it to anyone planning a trip out this way, if not for the ruins then for the monkeys.

Since having left San Cristobal, I had been in contact with a fellow from Ciudad del Carmen, a little fishing village cum oil-town on the Gulf of Mexico with whom I had hoped to couchsurf for a few days after having seen the ruins. My third day in Palenque I got word from him, and feeling as though I had had my fill of the jungle life for now - there would be plenty of time for that in Central and South America - I wasted no time in packing up and making for the coast.

The trip was broken into two parts of roughly equal length: Palenque to Villahermosa, and Villahermosa to Carmen. I caught my first bus around noon, and rolled into Villahermosa around 3PM or so. I bought my ticket and called my surfer - Jose Manuel his name - from a payphone to set up a meeting time. I would be in around 7:30, I told him. Great, we'll meet at 8 at the station. Fine, see you then.

So I sat for a few tacos to wait for my bus and make some chit chat with the taco lady. When its nearly time to go, I wander over and find to my dismay that my bus has already left - right on time, shockingly. There is another bus loading for Carmen - same bus company - but it is not my bus. I return to the ticket counter, and explain myself. The woman tells me that because I have missed my 1st class bus, I must wait for another 1st class bus - there should be one along in a few hours - and that my ticket is not good for the 2nd class bus presently leaving for Carmen, even though the latter is some twenty pesos (about two dollars) cheaper. If I want to take the bus leaving now, I'll have to pay another fare.

Now, I had already made plans to meet with Jose Manuel at 8, a time about which he was adamant, having planned an engagement shortly thereafter, so I could not afford to be late. A little frustrated at paying a double fare, I nevertheless climbed aboard the 2nd class bus, now backing out of the station, but when I tried to pay the driver, he told me there was no room, the bus was full. I charged past him in search of a seat, and found that there was in fact one left, but it was a doozy - obviously the least desirable seat on the bus - and I watched as all the other passengers averted their eyes while I, the lone foreigner, sized it up.

It was a window seat, right in the back behind the rear wheel-well (the bumpiest area) on the inside of a sizable Mexican women whom I had to literally climb over top of when she refused to rise. I scarcely had room to wedge in my buns beside this lady who, despite my apologetic giggles as I tried to do so, refused to meet my gaze. Once in place, I realized that the dark curtains which usually block out the punishing Mexican sun were missing on this particular set of seats, and so we two sat baking for the better part of the trip, the exposed skin of our forearms united in a slimy embrace. At least I was going to be on time, I thought, smiling to myself.

Jose Manuel was also right on time. A pleasant young man of nearly thirty years, he picked me up in his brand new Toyota, and after stopping to collect a friend of his with whom he had plans for the evening, we three drove to his impressive two-story house on the beach, where he dropped me off. Like most young professionals in Carmen - nicknamed The Pearl of the Gulf - Jose works in oil. For years, Carmen was a modest fishing village until, sometime in the 70s, oil depostis were discovered off its coast, the cultivation of which quickly usurped fishing as the city's dominant industry, and it is a powerful one.

Over the course of the past few years, Jose has single-handedly built this two-story home, in which he lives alone for the moment, and purchased himself a brand new BMW motorcyle for those days when he doesn't feel like driving his truck to work. But these comforts are the fruit of much labour, I can tell you - he worked the entire weekend I was there, dashing home for a short break in the afternoon for lunch, and then returning to work again until the evening.

But despite his taxing schedule, it was a pleasure to stay with him, and we shared many laughs as we tended the wobbly ganja plants he was coaxing out of some too-big pots full of dusty Mexican soil, or did our best to conjure up some "soup of squids" which actually turned out to be quite delicious. While he worked, I filled my days by lolling around Carmen's quaint but pleasant downtown sea-wall, watching old men fish with hand-lines, and fending off all the eager shoe-shine boys eyeing up my dusty boots.

One afternoon, having had my fill of town, I decided to have a dip in the Gulf - my first dip on the Atlantic side this trip. The water was opaque but refreshing, and the sun was warm cutting unhindered through blue skies. After bobbing around for a time, I was suddenly stricken with the odd desire to run, and took off up the shell-strewn beach chasing little gangs of tiny beach-birds who, refusing stubbornly to fly away, would instead run at full pace before me like a herd of miniature sheep. I laughed and ran on down beach for some time, stopping here and there to swim. It was a beautiful afternoon.


That evening I took Jose out for supper and he dropped me at the station where I caught a late bus into Campeche from whence I now write you, tucked away in the belly of the Pirate's Hostel. Having arrived quite late last night, I simply made for my hostel and turned in, but as I noted above, had a fine day today wandering the city, reading, and generally farting around in the sun.

It has been a slow few weeks as far as exciting travel stories go, and I have been reveling in having very little to do, and decidedly accomodating weather to do it in. At times I almost feel a little guilty for my laidback lifestyle - especially alongside such go-getters as Jose Manuel - but I usually just take a nap or have a coffee or something and it goes away.

Plans at the moment have me remaining here in Campeche for another few days before continuing along the Gulf to Merida, in Yucatan state, and then dashing across into Cancun where I will be met by Jasmine, my high-flying host from San Miguel, and luxuriating in the crystal waters of the Carribean. I will do my best to post at least once more before leaving Mexico for Belize, Guatemala, and points south.

Warmest wishes from sunny Campeche!

Street Art Of Mexico

So I've been on the road for almost exactly three months now, and at this point have amassed well over a thousand photos. Sounds like a lot, doesn't it? It ought to be noted, however, that that big number is due in large part to a few huge clusters of photos taken at particularly unique areas, or during special events. For example, I took a shit-ton of photos when I climbed Paricutin back in January, and also when I visited the monarchs in early February. There are also far too many pictures of old ornate churches, galleries, and other city-stuff like that.

However, I have recently noticed that apart from these big clusters, and the obligatory touristy shots, there is another species of photo that crops up more or less consistently throughout my travels, namely, shots of street art: graffiti, stencilwork, stickers, paste-ups, and random installation art. Now, there are lots of photos I could post, but for the purposes of this entry, I'll restrict myself to graf and stencils.

Although big centres like Guadalajara and Mexico City obviously had more than their fair share of street art, I've noticed these past few months that there is also no shortage of sweet work to be seen even in smaller cities. The following is a little taste of what I mean, plus some stuff from the big cities too.

(Click on images to see them larger.)


This piece is the first I photographed in Mexico. It was easily over twenty feet long, in full color, and pretty much blew my mind. It must have been quite new, because it was basically flawless. I found it on some dirty back street in Ensenada, a smallish town in Baja California, just a few hours south of the U.S. border. I had snapped a few shots of big pieces in San Francisco and L.A. but this piece is what prompted me to start keeping my eyes open in Mexico.

These next few characters of similar style were all found hiding out in Old Vallarta - I think we eventually discovered that they were tied to a local clothing line, and that if you came at them the right way, they kind of led you to the shop in question.




The following set are all from a little town in Michoacan state called Uruapan. This is where I stayed when I climbed Paricutin. This particular corner wall was covered for about a half-block in each direction.






Now, here are a few stingers from Guadalajara. I was even lucky enough to catch buddy right in the middle of one.





Finally, here are a few artsier pieces from downtown Mexico City.





But to be honest, the real inspiration for my putting this entry together were my experiences in the city of San Cristobal de las Casas, in the southern state of Chiapas. This region of Mexico has a long and painful history of social unrest, and this city in particular was an important site in the uprising of the indigenous peoples under the banner of the Zapatistas back in the 90s. As a result, its sreets are well-marked with revolutionary and resistance-themed stencil-art. All of the following were taken over the course of a few random walks about town the past few days.

While few of them employ multiple colors or layering, many are quite detailed cuts, such as the red face in the piece that reads "SOLIDARIDAD" and the big Frida cut at the end.













That's all for today. Hope all is well.