New Mexico

How much do you really know about yourself if you have never been to another tropical country? I had long suspected a certain tropicalness about myself -- a feeling of comfort, familiarity and affability in other tropical countries, mostly in and around the sub-continent. I attributed that recognition to geographical proximity and same race. I have been in plenty of Western countries where things and people were an interesting novelty, but the experiences were tempered by a certain lack of instinctual affinity for the people or the towns or the nature. Mexico was a breath of fresh air. There was an immediate connection with the place.

Cancun: Hot, flat, white

I flew into Cancun to a view of a beautiful, long, crooked sand bar called Isla Cancun. Cancun is a legendary Mexican Caribbean beach paradise for people with too much money and too little imagination. It is an artificial city built for tourism. When I deplaned, I got the feeling at the airport that I got in some modern Indian buildings of a people that were working in newly modernized occupational roles and were not taking themselves too seriously. Cancun was not as big a rip-off as I was lead to believe but I wasnt taking chances. I quickly took a bus and a one-hour ferry to Isla Mujeres. I leaned on the ferrys railing and gazed at the turquoise water the whole way.

Mujeres is supposed to be Cancun for backpackers. I pitched my tent at the ever-cool Poc Na Hostel and relaxed on a hammock with a cold Corona under a warm sun. This was a good start. The receptionist was a pretty, friendly British-Canadian girl who had come two years earlier for spring break and never left. She said simply, This is a very special place. This cheered me up no end -- I responded by ordering another Corona.

I walked over to the beach and saw bougainvilleas and hibiscuses, brick buildings, brightly colored houses, stray dogs and an eclectic looking bunch of Mexicans drinking beer, along the way. I swam in the perfect, though shallow waters under a dramatically clouded tropical sky. I went to one of the restaurants for some food. I choked on seeing the prices. I had an old guidebook for 97 and all the prices had doubled since (1 Peso is worth about 4 Rupees). I chuckled mirthlessly on considering the irony that I was studying to be an economist and hadnt factored in inflation. I instead went to the supermercado and bought some chicken, tortillas, with rice and salsa and one sapota for old time's sake.

That night I staggered to my tent, looking forward to a good nights sleep. Turns out the Caribbean weather is notorious for being el paradiso one hour and the eye of a cold cyclone another. I was sure I was going to drown, get struck by lightning, get blown away into the darkness or at least get wet. It was the loudest night of my life. I got up the next day and enquired around and found that this was quite normal. I was forced to spend a couple of days indoors watching bad movies till I was acclimatized enough to start exploring Mexico.

Chichen Itza, Yucatan: Remembering Raphael Alonso

I took a slow four-hour Secundo Classe bus to Chichen. Where else would I start off in Mexico but its most famous Mayan legacy? I gazed at the countryside and saw ugly brick buildings with brightly painted Coke ads on the sides alongside nice houses and thatched huts with new cars in the garage and little corner shops (potti kadais) that were undistinguishable from India. An adorable little Yucatan boy named Raphael Alonso kept me company the whole way. He along with his older female friends was selling oranges and peanuts. I chatted with the lad to get to the girls, but only he stayed with me till the end. He was obviously not terribly rich but was impeccably well behaved and totally at ease with talking to a stranger who spoke less Spanish than a kindergarten kid. When he got off, he even offered to take my orange peels to throw them away. I was filled with remorse for having bargained him down to 2 from the 3 pesos he asked for. Hey, dont judge me -- I am a backpacker.

I got off after a prolonged misunderstanding with the bus driver who kept trying to tell me he wasnt going to Chichen, which worried me and made me repeatedly wave my ticket. A passenger finally translated to me that at night they go instead to a nearby peublito called Piste since the ruins are closed at night. I pitched my tent and walked around looking to be entertained. I sneaked into a college fiesta, got thrown out, briefly peeked into a cantina (the Mexican version of an arrack shop) and finally decided on an underground bar. There was a stunningly sultry girl behind the bar and sundry thugs lying about -- it was exactly the image I had of a bar in Mexico. After a few bouts of machismo, the whole bar crowded around me and got terribly chatty. I found their conversation and social skills very similar to that of Indians. They even bought me a few rounds and showed me a good time. At closing time, the bartender lifted me and carried me out, all in good fun. I think I am the third Indian they know after Gandhi and Appu.

I walked to the Zona Arquealogica the next day and wasnt disappointed. Chichen was one of the headquarters of the Mayan civilization. The showcase is a pyramid with four sides, each with 91 steps plus one on top, adding to 365; the steps are further divided into 18 or so stages, representing Mayan months. On solstice and equinox days every year, tens of thousands of people gather around to watch the shadow cast by the sun on the steps creating an optical illusion of a serpent, the god Kukulcan, slowly slide up the steps to fade away at the top; quite a remarkable bit of math there. They also had a pelota stadium. Pelota, a game similar to football, was quite important to the Mayans. They routinely sacrificed the losing team.

Merida: Simple and nice

I took a ten-hour bus ride bearing west through Yucatan. I felt instantly comfortable in Merida. It is a pleasant town, in the heart of Maya-land, and has grown into a charming, fairly modern, slow paced town that thankfully hasnt been overrun by tourism. I never once felt like I was getting ripped off, any time. It has lovely Spanish architecture, colourful houses, narrow one-lane streets, and is easily explored on foot. I wandered around looking for habitacion till I found signs of a hostel and stepped in. There was a Mayan girl, Alejandra, behind the desk. She had a striking look, dark, piercing, bewitching eyes and an easy, confident personality. Now, these Mayans are short and slim, have our skin complexion and a trademark nose. She had the best of all of these traits and was tall. She reminded me of the cartoon Indian girl in Pocahantas the movie. The hostel was pretty, colourful, clean and friendly; except for the bathroom where used paper is not flushed but collected in a wastebasket by the pot. It was run by a Venezuelan film producer who had come to take up this job for a spell and stayed on to marry a girl half his age and never went back. I spent most of my time with his idiot nephew exploring the town. He was amusing but annoyed me endlessly.

We went to the local museum the next day and checked out a fine Frida collection before the idiot realized (by rubbing it) that it was a photo not an actual painting. In fact, they were all prints, including one of Mona Lisa which, despite being a print, was the only one reverentially covered by a glass panel. Why on earth would they do that, now? We also watched a good if serious movie, `The Violet Perfume, at the cultural center (for free) and attended fiestas with Mexican dances in the evening. At nights, they close the streets to traffic and serve food and have live bands and mariachis playing al fresco. I mainly ate tamales from the street vendors, some spicy tacos and ceviche, a delicious fish dish originally from Peru, I think, and a fine dessert called arroz con leche, similar to cold kheer.

We also went to a local palacio, which had paintings of the bloody struggles against the Spanish. I doubt that any other invading country of yore was more brutal than the Spanish. When Hernan Cortes landed in Mexico, the Mayan king at that time thought he was Quetzalcoatl, the mythical ruler of the Mayans, who, prophecy had it, would return to take charge. They welcomed him fondly and the rest is bitterly tragic history. The sad story of present day Mexico is that the richest and most powerful are descendants of the invaders who stayed back and pushed the Mayans down the food chain. Although they are proud of their heritage, they are in the unenviable situation of having to adopt the Spanish Christian identity: the identity of the murderer and the molester. It is quite unfortunate. Imagine if that had happened in India. It wouldnt be terribly amiss if the Spanish said sorry once in a while.

I learned a lot about the Mayans from the guys in the hostel. The women are fun-loving and outgoing but conservative at the same time. I already knew that they get angry a lot -- a lot -- at their men folk. They think constant fights make a relationship more fun. The men are friendly, easygoing, knowledgeable and simple. Yucatan homes have no beds, only hammocks. I did curiously enquire about and document some of the conjugal challenges this might present, but the answer to that is another story.

Palenque: Truly mystical

I took a long bus ride through a largely poor countryside to get to Palenque in Chiapas State. Palenque is the hippy capital of that part of the country. New age folks from all over Mexico and elsewhere periodically congregate at Palenque to chill out with their brethren. It also has ruins of a truly spectacular Mayan township nestled against a tropical jungle. These ruins are guaranteed to move the most jaded traveler. You can sense the energy there, especially in the early morning mist. I rate it one of the top sites in the world to visit.

I camped (for 20 pesos) in a little hippie campus right by the jungle called El Panchen. Nightly entertainment featured flamethrowers and live music in a little bar and conversations with some pretty interesting new age types who were beside themselves with joy at meeting an Indian Brahmin. One told me tales of eating mushrooms and skinny dipping with a desi flame-throwing girl; another, a trinket maker, told me about the similarity between their mysticism and our spirituality; yet another had an angry Ganesha tattooed on his chest and played in the band, and the list went on.

Although the setting was excellent, I had to leave in a couple of days. Although I had at one point incorrectly suspected I was one myself, I find I cant really take too much of hippies; 6 to 8 hours is the recommended adult dosage and I was over my limit. On the bus, I sat next to an elderly gentleman. He had sculpted the landmark Mayan head statue that welcomes visitors into the town and owned the bar at El Panchen, among other things. He knew much about many things and shared all of it. He even knew about IITs. He was a friendly guy. He told me to look him up next time I was in town.

San Cristobal de Las Casas: Left wing center

I arrived in San Cristobal pretty late in the evening. My search for a bed couldnt have been in more pleasant a place. It is a fine colonial city with excellent colourful architecture. It is surrounded by hills and is a little coolish and has a crisp air. I felt happy. I signed myself into a warmly welcoming hostel and played chess with the receptionist that night. I beat him too.

San Cristobal has a happy zocalo (the main square), crowded with people and hawkers selling all manners of snacks and trinkets. My favorite was the corn on the cob -- each one of them was the size of my head -- served with mayo, lime and chili. The streets are narrow and often cobbled.

San Cristobal is Mecca to left wing types. It was all the rage a few years ago. Like I had mentioned, Mexico is controlled largely by the descendants of the conquistadors. They gradually marginalized the Indigenas people, taking over their traditional properties, which sparked a revolution by the Indians lead by Emiliano Zapata around 1911. The government agreed and signed a treaty with the Indians of Chiapas whereby the ownership of the lands was transferred back to them. In the eighties and nineties, the president, some say who was bought off by the Americans, reneged on this agreement and sold out the Indians by opening up these resource-rich lands to foreign business, largely for timber and for building roads through Indian land without due compensation, under the garb of globalization and NAFTA. Now, these Indians -- if they dont have their forest, they die; it is as simple as that. That is how closely tied they are to the land. This prompted a siege of the state capital lead by Subcommandante Marcos, a masked anonymous figure later identified as a university professor. This has warmed the cockles of folks throughout the world who support the underdog and feel the pain of injustice. While the current state of affairs regarding a resolution is unclear, there were soldiers on vigil, bearing guns in every corner in the town. I found that I only had to walk 10 minutes out of the city center to see vast Indian slums.

I later went to the cultural center to watch documentaries on Indian culture, the WTO, the EZNL and their problems with globalization. Maybe these guys exaggerate a bit, but to an extent, I am a little insecure about our collective futures. Globalization could be scary. It is your responsibility to read up on it.

I went to watch a band (this guy that worked in my hostel was playing), and met up with a gang of angry young men who were getting ready to save the world. They were all intelligent and felt passionately at unfairness not matter where it happened. They knew much about the world, be it Kashmir or Palestine or Venezuela, and it was really quite inspiring to hang out with them.

The next day, I got my hair cut for 10 pesos and looked for food. I was terribly disappointed with the food there. Admittedly, I wasnt willing to spend much, and the salsa was always hot and they add lime to everything and the meat was always well cooked and the sauces were often tasty, but I was still disappointed with the cuisine; I didnt find it tasty or interesting enough. All this changed when I asked for and ate some delicious pollo en mole with soup and a horchata. I had been eating cheap for a while and this was a terrific treat.

I even visited Chamula, a nearby indigenas village on the hills, but there was nothing to write home about; except, I met this traveler who kept saying how the ladies in India would hypnotize her with the dots. I had the option of spending New Year in San Cristobal. There was even talk of a clandestine Manu Chau concert. But I rolled my dice and left for Oaxaca.

Oaxaca City: El Tule

Dont get me wrong. I am not the type to go to a foreign attraction and slam it. But Oaxaca is really not as fabulous as they make it to be. Well, let me start from the beginning.

I took an overnight bus from San Cristobal and woke up to the sight of a desert in the mountains in a sea of agave cacti. I went to Oaxaca with great expectations. It came highly recommended to me; well enough for me to decide to spend New Year there. I deposited myself at a pretty hostel with colourful parrots flying about. The owner was a musician with a hot Peruvian girlfriend. I walked about and ate some pozole, a delicious soup, similar to Tom Yum, which I cannot praise enough. There were fine buildings, lots of handicrafts and a zocala bustling with activity. There were also beautiful girls everywhere. I stopped at the zocalo for some peanuts (with lime and chili) and some ice cream. I resumed walking and covered most of the fashionable areas by foot and went back to the hostel.

This hostel was filled with cool people -- including a German juggler, and some sundry cool Europeans -- and I spent New Years with them. We started off to a fine juggling exhibition at the zocalo and then took up some serious drinking at the hostel. Later we went to a touristy bar filled with gringos. We had a great time though; an Arabic Oaxacan guy, a local radio station producer, kept us in splits all night long. At the stroke of New Year, the bartender offered us 12 grapes to eat -- a little ceremony to go with the count to 12.

I was mainly impressed not just by the exterior architecture but also by the interiors of the houses and the hotels, which are elegant, simple and colourful. They inevitably have a square courtyard at a lower level and a corridor surrounding it. They are usually aesthetically decorated with plenty of potted plants. I spent almost everyday drinking samples of mescal at the Mezcalerias. For those who dont know, Tequila doesnt come with a worm in the bottle; but mescal does; it is pretty much the same thing, only stronger. I also purchased some fine paintings on tree bark/papyrus kind of a material. There were also plenty of rugs and pottery on display. This was all very well, but I still felt like something was missing.

I went to El Tule on my last day -- it hosts the worlds fattest tree -- and amused myself for a bit. I finally left, having run out of time; I had fun but didnt feel like I had the pulse of this city.

I was eager to get home, but at the same time, felt hugely calm and was contented with what I had done over the previous month.

Go to Mexico; it is magical; it is very special.