Puebla, Hotel Colonial, Sat, 1-12-02, afternoon

Just drew up to our hotel on the city's zocalo. Nothing like the dazzling first glimpse of Guanajuato's two years ago.

Landed to find Mex City sealed; had just missed a dry season cloudburst. Took the bus from the airport. As we cruised east, away from Mex, suddenly the abject sprawl ceased and we rose into a beautiful alpine forest. No views of Popo or Ixta. Who needs them when the guide books assure that they are "majestic," "soaring," that they "float" and are "heavily frosted?"

The hotel has fading glory. The room looks out over a verdant courtyard, a Mexican specialty.

Cool: the clammy air has gotten me to pull over my wool sweater.

Puebla, Sat, 1-12, evening

Travel weary brain revived by tequila. Pre-tequila we strolled through the surpassing zocalo, featuring venerable date palms and kempt green grass. We stuck our heads in the Plateresque (?) cathedral, then jostled down pedestrianized Cinco de Mayo, not a tourist in the throng. The street seems to function as a commercial extension of the zocalo, off which it runs. Families strolled; children clutched cotton candy; teenage girls walked arm and arm, bored waiters stood outside empty restaurants--all to a cacophony of pop, rap, and mariachi. We were a long way from home.

Along the way we spotted and entered Santo Domingo. The main church gleams with marble and gilt. To the left of the altar (mass in progress) was the Baroque chapel, a leafy gale of gold relief, all for the greater glory of course.

Puebla, Sun, 1-13, AM

After dinner we returned to the zocalo, now hosed by floodlight. We toured the sumptuous city hall, its balcony giving a nice view of the main square.

Weather remains New York Novembery: overcast, raw, a hint of mist.

Oaxaca, Hotel Los Golandrinas, Sun, 1-13, 11:30 PM

"As it was winter, or the 'dry season', it had been raining, with but one or two brief intermissions, for twenty-four days . . ."

Charles MacComb Flandrau, Viva Mexico

Yeah.

Puebla. At the crack of 7 I stepped into the courtyard and peered up at a gray square. Then to the roof: a patch of blue showed, though the roof itself had wet patches.

After breakfast we roamed still nearly empty streets, the only real activity a group of men briskly assembling Sunday papers outside the newspaper offices. Lots to admire as we walked n. along and just off the pedestrianized portion of Cinco de Mayo. We sought out Santa Monica. A short hall led to a lush garden courtyard, walls vibrant with azulejos. Then we poked around the former convent's exquisitely restored nooks and crannies, including kitchen, refectory, and crypt. The place didn't quit. Just when we expected it to, there'd be yet another secret courtyard, hidden chapel, or forgotten hallway. Remember funhouses? And quiet: the city seemed miles away behind the complex's ponderous walls.

We wandered and admired some more. Mist turned to spritz turned to sprinkle turned to rain; cool to raw to cold, which it remained for the rest of the day. (My nose finally thawed when I stepped off the bus in Oaxaca at 8:30.) We checked out at 11 and took a cab to the station, only to find that we'd missed the bus to Oaxaca by five minutes. Haven't we ever heard of schedules? The next bus wasn't for four hours. We didn't relish the prospect of cooling our heals in the chilly and dirty bus station. So we checked our bags and headed back to town, riding through the rain turned to torrent. Ate on the zocalo, then dashed from the colonnade to the cathedral to the cultural center's protected courtyard, which was featuring a dance program. Each group was arrayed in what I take to be regional costumes. Charming. The dancers ranged from early adolescence to 80ish. The program was a cross between performance and recital, with half as many performers as the 300 or so in the audience. The crowd applauded vigorously after each number, save for two men off to the side, bent to chess, apparently oblivious.

Bus: More dry season rain. An hour into the drive we twisted south on 135, away from Orizaba. The soaking land turned arid. In another hour, as darkness fell, we passed through a silhouetted forest of mighty cactuses. We struggled to read by the "light" of our ten watt lamps. Occasionally I glanced up to find our driver attempting yet another heart-stopping stunt on what was now merely two lanes. Finally I had the sense to stop looking; I relaxed.

Our one stop was Tehuacan, spa town according to our guide book, mostly bleak from the bus. The driver gave us 10. J and I drew curious looks from the other travelers as we bought snacks.

Before stepping off the bus in dry Oaxaca I zipped up my jacket, which I wore over wool sweater, long sleeve shirt, and thick cotton T-shirt. No need: the air was lovely. Relief! Settled, we blundered down to the zocalo. We ate in the midst of a scene that suggested St. Marks Pl. or Tompkins Sq. Earnest guitarists serenaded for tips; American-looking hippies strolled by; to our right sat a large group of young Americans, hair in dreds, trying their best to look like well-heeled drop outs. Their pseudo-Spanish gave the lie.

Nice to sip beer in the balm after a long, cold, white knuckle bus ride.

Oaxaca, Mon, 1-14, PM

Broke fast in Los Golandrinas's leafy outdoor cafe. Then took Blue Guide tour of the city's half dozen most celebrated churches, including the amazing Santo Domingo. Most have brazenly Baroque inner facades flanked by austere outer ones.

At 2 we met Ron Waterbury at the zocalo, easy to identify given the description he'd emailed me several days earlier. Carol turned up twenty minutes later. Chatted; got touring advice. Both independently described Oaxaca as "paradise."

Oaxaca, Tues, 1-15, morning

Sky New England winter blue as we sit at breakfast. I'm trussed up against the early morning in sweater and jacket. How chilly can you be though when ripening grapefruits dangle just above your head?

Ten minutes later, still at breakfast, the sun leaks over the roof and I begin doffing.

Oaxaca, Tues, 1-15, PM

Toured the beautiful, almost palatial ex-monastary at Santo Domingo. From the church plaza it appears modest. Once in though you find a grand two story courtyard, from which you can gaze at the Tempelo's bell towers and blue and white tiled dome.We continued to explore: a gilded hall, a second courtyard, long corridors ending in patios with mountain views. It's more like a sybaritic resort than a place to cozy up to God. Although not nearly as lavish and the grounds can't begin to compare, I thought of the Alhambra.

We then hurried over to Carol Waterbury's interesting tour of the Ethno-Botanical garden, within the monastery. All the flora--several types of winter flowering deciduous trees, a variety of palms, and myriad cactuses and agaves--was native to the state. Carol described their uses, indicated their taxonomy, and put them in the context of Oaxacan culture and traditions. Nice

Monte Alban. Afternoon, took the bus to the famous ruins. Walking to the bus from the zocalo, we were soon away from upscale shoppes and sunburned tourists. Each block was packed with stalls offering everything from shoes, to chocolate, to just slaughtered chickens. Where were the buyers? Then up the switchbacks to Monte Alban, its slope stuffed with cinder block hovels patched with corrugated steel. Children, carrying backpacks, immaculate in school uniforms, ran through the dust. Men looked out from customerless snack bars. Women balanced large loads on their heads as they trudged. Feral mutts sniffed for scraps.

Barely a soul at the site. The views alone were worth the excursion. And just how did they sustain a city reposing 1500 feet above the valley floor with no obvious source of water?

Oaxaca, Wed, 1-16, PM

"A special Mexican handshake (very firm, with thumbs entwined, and forearms often held vertically against each other) is a sign of great favour" (Blue Guide 1997, 122).

Well, that was something! We arranged a guided mountain bike tour. Picked up at 9:30, we drove 60 miles through pretty CalNev-like mountainscape. (Passed through Zimatlan on its busy market day.)

We began our ride in the deserted dusty square of Santa Cruz Nix--. We bounced down a dirt road through farm country, i.e. the country. Sometimes it seems that every arable, semi-arable, and unarable stich in Mexico is cultivated. Children skipped along; a farmer guided an oxen drawn plough; a man bathed naked in the river; women laundered there. We passed four men on a pilgrimage, lugging bulky backpacks. For the first few miles we occasionally drew close to the main road (Rt. 131) before leaving it for good. At our last approach stood three dozen brightly colored comidas ranged along our road. Their only purpose seemed to be to serve through traffic. Lively. Then we were again pedaling beside the perennial river that would accompany us for nearly the balance; the paved road was now far off. Our dirt one was darkly shadowed by large--enormous--sabinos, looking like a cross between redwoods and bald cypresses.

We actually had two guides, Pedro Martinez, the tour director, and Leonardo ---. Pedro lagged in his Jeep. Leonardo, titanium legs and boundless stamina, led us on bikes. Along a sabino shrouded stretch, a couple of hours into our ride, Pedro pulled up and bid us to stop. Music played on his stereo.

Angie, I still love you. . . .

Angie, you're beautiful. . . .

Angie, your kisses still taste sweet.

So how come you're dumping her? Sang along anyway.

The reason for the break was a home mescal distillery. The setting: riparian lushness and towering trees behind; drooping banana plants guarding the distillery in front; large cactuses jutting out of the rocky mountainside beyond. The owner, with whom Pedro was obviously cordial, greeted us and offered sweet chunks of soaked agave, source of the strong drink. Then he poured us a clear cup. I took two or three fiery sips; any more and I might've been done riding.

We climbed, with views of the river to our left. About four hours along the pretty church of San Sebastian de Las Grutus appeared, town clustered around it. In another ten minutes we arrived at our destination, San Sebastian's cave. Leonardo favored me with a handshake and a foot long smile when we pulled up together outside the cave. Pedro rattled into town to fetch the guide. Pleasant to sit outside the cave by a pretty sabino lined, spring fed brook. A hundred yards or so from the cave spread a ruined (since 1986) Tourist Yu'u, which they were glacially renovating. Love to stay there when the job's finished.

The guide unlocked the cave's gate. In we stepped, Pedro and I bearing heavy flashlights. At first I thought that this was the closest I'd ever be to poking around on the lifeless bottom of a deep sea. Then, a few minutes into our exploration, we heard hisses and coos from the black.

"Murcielagos," explained Pedro.

Now it seemed more like another planet than the ocean depths. We walked on through a fantastic display of (limestone?) formations. The place was cavernous.

I kept expecting the hole to dwindle to a crawl space, at which I would make my apologies. Finally after about 20 minutes we approached and then entered a passage that called for crouching, then lower crouching, and then lower still. When I was about to drop to my knees, Pedro, who was just ahead of me, exclaimed, "Luz!" The "cave" was really a huge tunnel, this end sunlit. Beautiful, but relieved when we were out.

Pedro then drove us to a comida a mile outside of San Sebastian and a million from NY. We were really at someone's house--houses actually, the compound of an extended family. Two generations of adults greeted us as I sat down apologetically in (under?) the palapa. Several kids approached; they blushed and giggled as Pedro engaged them in raillery.

"Cerveza? Coca Cola?" he then asked us.

That's easy: beer. A young woman served us faintly cool Coronas. Soon she and another young woman were laying out hot, home grown, made from scratch, pressed by hand, tortillas, which we filled with beans and what not. Then more. Then still more. We ate in voluptuous late afternoon warmth. Dogs and fowl rooted at our feet. After lunch our hosts invited us into their infernal kitchen, apparently unchanged since prehispanic times, save for the tape player and the stack of cassettes by the door. The main attraction was a large wood burning combination oven/stove. To the side was a hand press for fashioning tortillas. Two of the children who'd been chatting with Pedro joined us. The women bid J to have a go. First try flopped, or rather failed to rise on the fire; the kids peeled laughter. Second fared better. I snapped a couple of shots.

Oaxaca (no doubt), Thurs, 1-17 (I think), PM (definitely)

Just returned from two anodyne beers on the zocalo. Shard of moon peeked over tall trees.

Much earlier took ramshackle tourist-free bus 10 miles out of town to market in Zaachila. Want a live turkey? Ten gallon bucket? King-size bed? Dried Grasshoppers? Thursdays.

Unstinting sun seemed to seek out my still winter sallow face wherever I turned.

Admired nice colonial church (can't remember if it's something, i.e., if mentioned in Blue Guide) and walked to mostly unexcavated prehisp site, with tomb, just beyond the church.

Rode ramshakler bus back toward town (Zaachila end of road), stepping off at Cuilapan. Town forgettable, scruffy, but fully redeemed by unfinished, crumbling, Old Worldy basilica. Again, where're the tourists?

No wonder Philip II (?) got fed up with the expense; this spread was well on its way to becoming yet another New World clerical Elysium. Mostly chaste ("sober" says Blue Guide, I think) Renaissance but featuring some Gothic ribbed vaulting and a couple of Gothic archways--cool to see on this side of the Atlantic.

Sun less fierce now, shade warm; we sat and admired. Likely some Lawrence or glib Let's Go scribe has already captured the essence of this place, so I'll forbear.

Oaxaca, Fri, 1-18, AM

J packing. Last night before eating (bother) we strolled over to untouristed Llano (Paseo Juarez), which easily outcharms zocalo. Families promenaded, teenage boys skateboarded. The two colonial churches on the square were floodlit.

Hotel Puesta del Sol, San Jose Del Pacifico, Fri, 1-18, PM

"The sun was still hot when we arrived; but its heat was a kind of veneer over an essential core of mountain cold." A. Huxley, Beyond the Mexique Bay

After packing took one more walk, n of S. Domingo and monastery, then west to the remains of ye olde aqueduct, part of which they've attractively converted into a hidden public garden; other parts frame trim little houses.

Left town around noon, traveling through nettly semi-desert, arider the farther s. we got. After 60 Mexican miles we reached the bulwark of the Sierra Madre Sur. Up, then up; more up; around and around; down, then up, again and again. Caught views of the scorched valley below. Suddenly, just the other side of the 50th curva peligrosa, the succulents made way for alpine and lush understory. Right, then up some more and more.

We've rented a room in cabin with a stunning view of a luxuriant valley and wave upon wave of mountains south. We arrived 3ish. Since then clouds have been stalking in, obscuring the higher peaks. Once settled we took the ten minute walk into town--oops! village--to pay an extortionate $5.50 for 6 Modelos at San Jose's only retail outlet. As the sun sank, the clouds aggressively smothered the valleys, like SF fog. Raw: early August to late October in an hour.

San Jose, Sat, 1-19, AM

Continued to savor the stupendous view from patio outside of our room yesterday late afternoon/early evening. Light was in constant flux, dense clouds snuffing out the sun an hour before it set.

We drove a mile villageward. (too treacherous to walk) to a restaurant (Esther) which seemed, by its large parking lot, to be town truck stop. Cool; rustic (what else!); nice; cold. The inevitable teenage girl took our halting Spanish orders. Like most restaurants in Mexican towns and villages, this one is part and parcel of someone's home. When it was time to square up (35 pesos), we could produce only a wad of those accursed, unbreakable-in-the-villages 200 peso notes. The girl and the resident adults turned the house and restaurant inside out for change, part of which was in kind: two Modelos. We leaped.

We emerged from the restaurant to find cottony undercast at our feet, glittering sky elsewhere. Being at 9000-10,000 feet means that we're above the pall of brown that often streaks Mexican skies.

We really only snacked at Esther, so we repaired immediately to the Puesta's own charming restaurant. I guess this meant that we were doing up San Jose. When we walked in, two other diners, young guys, were chatting in English. We'd noticed them wheeling their bikes down to their cabin while we were checking in. People who'd ridden to these heights were bound to have stories. I approached. They seemed delighted to have us join them. They were from Ireland, in the middle of a four week bike tour of Oaxaca. They'd already covered a lot of the northern half of the state and were planning to ride to the coast, 70 miles way down road, tomorrow.

They weren't seasoned cyclists; in fact one confessed that he never rode at home. Both were remarkably widely traveled (a lot of it together): all of Central America, save Panama. ("If you think that bus drivers are crazy in Mexico, try Guatemala."), lots of the U.S., where one had lived for two years (Houston), and Yemen. And that's only what came up in conversation. Some raw and rainy weather notwithstanding, they were thoroughly enjoying themselves. They praised the hospitality of all the people they'd met. Many nights they'd camped, but when they saw the Puesta in midafternoon, they couldn't pass it up.

At nine "management," a teenage girl of course, announced that the restaurant was closing. We invited them back to our place--patio, actually--for beers. They made engaging conversation for the next couple of hours about their wide and intrepid travels, contemporary Irish politics (evidently no clear left-right divide among the main political parties), and the keystone Irish police. ("Don't it breek yer heart?" remarked one of Dublin's finest, while he survey the ransacked apartment of one of our interlocutors. Case closed.) And they seemed to know nearly as much about the US and its politics as we did.

Now we nurse quasi-coffee in the hotel restaurant, enjoying the mountains and morning light. Right, just how do you get an honest cup of coffee in this country? And not thirty miles from here the stuff is commercially cultivated.

San Jose, Sat, 1-19, PM

Late afternoon clouds are again slipping in from the Pacific.

After breakfast we walked e. out of village up a piney, monster agave-lined, carless dirt road, which occasionally offered glimpses of neighboring peeks and the villages sprinkled on their flanks. (How do people make a living here?) A couple of times, a couple of hours into our hike, we spotted this village (San Sebastian Rio Hondo) fitted in a high valley a couple of miles n. Could we get there from here? We made several tries on ever remoter dirt roads. At one point we approached within 400 or 500 as-the-crow-flies yards of the spot, only to draw farther and farther away. The town lay opposite a heavily wooded gorge. I remained determined to find a route. As we retraced our steps, I kept my eyes peeled for a path north. About ten minutes into our return I saw it. Now how did we miss that the first time? It was a well trodden, probably centuries old burro trail. Five minutes down we encountered two men with burros. They confirmed that we were on track.

"Are you going to the fiesta?" One asked.

Of course!

Down we trekked, 1000 or so vertical feet. Then up again by nearly as much. The town, which we could also hear from the top of the trail, was out of sight and hearing for most of the hike. On the village's outskirts we passed vertical cornfields. When we were finally in Dodge, several women stepped out of their houses, cannily sensing potential earnings. They offered handicrafts and sweaters. We left $18 behind. We continued to explore while the townsfolk look us up and down. The village itself was poor but tidy.

An eastbound bus marked Cienquilla gnawed into town, depositing women and children; men and teenage boys jumped out of dusty pickups and group taxis. All headed downhill towards the small zocalo, site of the fiesta. We followed. Too early: the vendors were still setting up. We decided not to tarry.

We set out on a much used dirt road west (sort of; I guess). If we induced curiosity in town, in the country we were a sensation. A group of children screamed wildly when J asked if they knew the way to San Jose; an entire family, house set back, greeted us loudly.

Then we were lost; now everything looked the same: empty dirt roads winding up mountainsides, lofty peaks of the cloud forest in the distance, tall pines wherever we turned. Maybe it wasn't quite as stunning as it had been five hours earlier. Each direction seemed equally plausible. At length we approached a house a couple miles outside of San Sebastian with three generations assembled in the yard. They replied with emphatic No's when we asked if we were going right. Back (and back up) we went. We stopped several more people for corroboration. Once in San Jose again, which seemed like west Midtown after our day in the woods, we snapped a couple of pictures of the old, thick walled, corrugated steel roofed church.

San Jose, Sun, 1-20, AM

Guidebook accurately describes our hotel as "invitingly rustic." But why does rustic so often mean cold floors and thin walls?

Taking in lush mountainscape once more before we head south: air cool, sun warm.

Hotel Inez, Puerto Escondido, Sun, 1-20, PM

South. Highlight: San Miguel Suchixtepec (I don't know how to pronounce it either), twenty miles s. of San Jose. Has lovely, beige, largish, not mentioned in Blue Guide Baroque church. Town itself hangs on a cliff and enjoys a panorama of the highest Sierra Madre Sur. Real alpine feel, sans les chalets.

Then down. With each bend the flora became more exuberant. For one twenty minute stretch we wended alone through a dark and empty, still alpine forest; we might almost have been hiking. Then a ragged banana plant appeared, soon another, this time growing a bit less diffidently. The long-needled pines thinned and then vanished. Downer, lusher, then jungly and humid. Villages again spread along the road; stalls displayed large bunches of red, yellow, and green bananas. Another level lower and we passed dense stands of viagran bamboo. Ten miles from the coast and out of the mountains the jungle dwindled, replaced by scrub. Saw at most a dozen cars coming the other way until we reached bustling, tropical Potchula.

Escondido, Sun, 1-20, dusk

"Tropical paradise or not, I realized, as I munched through the bananas, that I had fallen in love with the place, with the alligators that I would never see, and the strip of white sand I would never reach and above all with the slow torrid rot of the existence which it offered and from which I would inevitably turn away. I imagined the easy sloughing-off of responsibilities, the carefree decline into depravity and the final stages of physical degradation, my evening walk to the cafe turned to a shuffle, the gnats clustered on my skin when, immune to their bites, I would no longer bother to brush them away."

John Lincoln, One Man's Mexico

Strains of Miles and Coltrane from the bar two floors above our room.

All right, troubled by paradise as we pulled through the hotel gate; began to regret forsaking alpine idyll. Like heat, but what assaulted us when we arrived bordered on appalling. The Inez looked just like a tropical paradise hotel is supposed to look, but could I abide the inferno? Idiotically seeking Caleta again, which PE distinctly isn't.

Fifteen minutes after check-in breeze stirred: not cool, but not bad. Then down to an on-beach palapa for a couple of lime-freshened Coronas, and all was right with the world. Look, it's not like we've spent every day in hotel bars swilling. What? We're gonna have to leave? Ever? Walked along swell beach, entertained by huge waves. Then mounted up to hotel rooftop bar to enjoy sunset and--more beer. Two Irish women, aunt and niece, asked us to join them. Did; chatted; nice. Air grew lovely and stayed it until 11 the next morning. The tropics!

Escondido, Sun, 1-20, evening

Sandals!

Escondido, Mon, 1-21, first thing

Mmm.

Escondido, Mon, 1-21, early afternoon

Bullied poolside by brawny sun. PE seedy paradise. Another Mex resort that never quite turned the corner. It has an island or end-of-the-road-feeling, since there's nothing akin nearby; in fact there's nothing much of any kind. Angel and Huatulco are an hour and three east, Acapulco six tortuous hrs west. It's a Little America, with the same cast of drop outs, ex-cons, and no doubt artists manques as Key West or Provincetown. It lacks the historic flavor and the gayness of those two places. Still, the town's got tawdry charm. Least appealing feature: the crew of straight, girlfriendless 25 year-old surfers who spend their nights drinking too much tequila and talking graphically and loudly about bodily functions.

Showed up at El Cafecito, two minutes from the Inez, second thing to find it busy with an assortment of the aforementioned along with well scrubbed Yankees and prosperous looking Mexicans. Honest coffee! Espresso! Behind us a gravelly conversation in American (four men, one woman; skin cancer city) about drugs, their virtues, and the perils of getting caught with the illegal ones. One was looking forward to his brother's imminent release from the slam (conspiracy to sell cocaine; 7 yrs; framed); another boasted of the two and a half yrs that he had quit smoking while down on the state farm, only to resume the day he got his walking papers.

"Then you didn't really quit, did ya? You're smokin' now."

"Guess not, but I'm gonna again--soon."

Sure ya did. You quit for two and half years.

Escondido, Mon, PM 1-21

Sun, heat; lounged, read, walked on beach; now cooler. I'll take it; took it.

PE feels unfinished. Concrete roads turn rudely to dirt; luxury enclaves--festooned with bougainvillea, fenced by hovels--protect red-faced vacationers; a junk yard abuts a spiffy high rise; the Playa Principal, the beautiful beach in the middle of town, is litter-strewn, its waves gasoline-smeared.

Best thing: Hemingway never drank here.

Breeze lovely; day's heat fading memory.

Escondido, dawn, Tues, 1-22

Oo! Cool! Here in El Cafecito some coffee sippers have sweaters; some are actually wearing them.

First non-dream image today: swirl of feathery fronds outside room. But today we leave coconut strip for arid mountain-framed plateau.

When we pulled into PE day before yesterday (is that all it was?) thought of course of Maugham. Yesterday lying poolside was reminded of Hans Castorp and his lounge chair and blanket. Am more maybe more like Joachim's uncle (?), who came to his senses timelyly.

Hotel nice but strange. I never saw the phlegmatic (surly?) late 60s German owner move more than ten feet during our stay. His frame showed it. He seemed to have two chairs for his three activities: tracking his investments online, baby talking to his infant granddaughter (chair 1; morning, early afternoon), and entertaining leather-skinned German and American expats (chair 2; rest of day and evening). Serving guests was an afterthought. His daughter and son-in-law seemed to run the place--not very efficiently.

The indigenous staff quietly and nearly invisibly kept things comfortable for the privileged guests.

Neocolonial.

Clean, spiderless hotel just east of Oaxaca, Wed, 1-23, pre-coffee.

Tough to leave seductive shore. Drive back--this time as passenger--was stunning. Shortly after we left the coast we reentered fecund banana belt and parrot zone. Then alpine again and the rest. Stopped in cool, cloudy San Miguel Suchixtepec for photo op of church. Kids around seemed to wonder why anyone would take the slightest notice.

Drive went faster than we'd planned, so we decided to push all the way to Mitla. Once we'd escaped the shabby outskirts of Oaxaca we entered a magnificent region of dun, erosion-chisled mountains, orange in the late afternoon light. We got to Mitla at sundown. Our guide book mentioned two hotels. Clean was the best it could say for them. Ominous. We chose the more expensive ($18). It didn't matter because it turned out that the other showed no signs of life.

The "hotel" was really a rooming house, with no obvious office. Fortunately a rap on the most eligible door summoned the owner, bearing the ledger. As I bent to sign in, I noticed the names and addresses of past American, Canadian, and European guests. Golly, we were the first entry in a month! Ominous. The room was--grim: small and dingy, holes in the bedspread, and the de rigueur impossible-to-read-by naked bulb in the middle of a flaking ceiling. Flushing brought flash flooding in the combination bathroom/shower. Grim. So grim that we agreed not to say "grim" until tomorrow, i.e., today. I switched to "bleak." All we had to do was get through the next few hrs; all right, the next several hrs; fine, the next 12 hrs. Where's the Hotel Inez with its window-rattling surf when you need it? Give me my NYC garret!

We "toured" town, walking first to the undistinguished zocalo and then to the distinguished colonial church. A standing room only service was proceeding. On a Wednesday? After mass the town came to life. Parents sauntered in the middle of the street with young children in tow; groups of older kids cruised on bikes. We walked some more. No great shakes, but thanks to the daily hordes, more prosperous than most smallish Mexican towns that we'd seen. There was an Internet "cafe" (six computers really; all in use) and two video game arcades, raucous with 12 year old boys. In front of both arcades lay a congeries of unlocked bikes. Camera and T-shirt shops testified that there was a tourist trade, but we saw no other visitors. Tried to make the best of it, but this really wasn't where I wanted to be just then.

Had to eat. Alas. There are times in Mex when it seems that everyone's house doubles as a restaurant. Not then. The "spic and span" restaurant in our so-called hotel was closed on Tuesdays. We scoured the main drags for a meal, but it was beginning to look like ice cream would have to do. Finally found a mom and pop--or rather a mom; no pop in sight. Not bad; filling anyway. Time to seek beer, to steel ourselves for the night.

Back "home." As I shoved open the door and unleashed all 25 watts, I instantly realized that my viscera had already forgotten how grim--sorry, bleak--our lodging was. The light switch was grimey with fingerprints. Not only was the spread on our bed of nails pocked with holes; it also needed a bath. Oh, yeah, and to get to the flooding toilet you had to pass through the drizzling shower. Still, I was resigned.

We hadn't been in the room for two minutes when J exclaimed, "Oh my fucking God!"

Oh my fucking God! Major spider, not four feet above our bed, planted on the wall, three times the size of any spider you or I have ever seen.

"Enough! Let's get out of here!" I courageously advised.

We fled to the characterless, chainy motel a few miles east of the city where I make this entry. Hidden parking lot, discreet car ports, and four large make-you-look-taller-and-thinner-than-you-are mirrors in our room (nice): guess this is where Oaxacans are supposed to arrange their assignations. Whatever.

Had a beer; slept.

Oaxaca, Hotel Principal, Wed, 1-23, PM

Exhausted and weak. Still did lots. Mitla first; had the site nearly to ourselves for a few minutes, then the masses massed in (junior high school kids, their teachers, and a docent). Striking contrast between the ruins and the town's colonial church. Next, drove well beyond the end of the (paved) road to Hierve el Agua. The drive itself would have been worth the effort. The road (Rt 179) winds first through desert, then chaparral, then pines. Highlight: man leading a train of five burros, the latter burdened with firewood. About five miles from our destination we left pavement and raised a moving tempest, making me feel like an interloper. Passed more men with burros. Again the flora changed--back to cactuses joined by shocks of small gnarled palms (fan palms?). Hierve's limestone "waterfalls" were cool, but most striking was its end-of-the-worldness, enhanced by range upon range of desert mountains. Visibility was superb. Hawks soared so close that you could hear their wings rustle; saguaro-likes congregated on the rockiest patches. The Tourist Yu'u looked inviting.

Hot.

Next, Yagul, sprawled on a mountainside. Although it lacks Mitla's beautiful fretwork, it's a more impressive site, larger and labyrinthine, in a magnificent desert setting. Had it to ourselves. Why?

Then Santa Anna De Valle, of weaving fame. We parked at the zocalo. J went in search of rugs, while I slept, while kids played tag and basketball and adults vaguely supervised beneath more bald mountains. So far as I could tell, no one paid the slightest attention to me.

Finally, a stop for the photographable 17-18th century church of Tlacohahuaga.

Oaxaca, Thurs, 1-24, PM

Weather: June 15 (perennially?)

Slow, pleasant day in historic Oaxaca. Walked around el Llano, which was surprisingly active. Then sought out San Juan and Soledad (the latter especially; gorgeous facade), which churches we'd seen while driving out of town last week. The plaza between them makes a perfect, Italianate use of city space. More strolling and then succumbed to a drink--er, two--at Camino Real's cloister bar.

Well.

Couldn't go right back for evening toilet, so strolled n. towards S. Domingo and watched bats dart and soar in the floodlights. Then s., where streets were already noisy with revelers.

Oaxaca, Fri, 1-25, 11:30 PM

Exhausted. Just returned from dinner with a nice women from Portland who is staying in our hotel.

Amazing day in Apoala. Will have to include a full entry tomorrow. Briefly, drove n. to Nochixtlan, then several miles out of town. Next mountain biked 20 odd miles over attention-grabbing hill and dale. Country generally scrubby and undistinguished but beautiful at times. Cruised down to remote hamlet of Tierra Colorada. Hiked through grand canyon w/ Yosemite-like exposures, 800-1000 feet above the floor. Apoala Santiago: hiked another 500 vertical feet down to bottom of huge waterfall, then up again. Ate regional food in attractive Apoala Tourist Yu'u. Drive out gave prospect of Apoala's beautiful fertile plateau, as well as of another large canyon.

Puebla, Royalty Hotel, Sat, 1-26, PM

"On the whole [Puebla]'s a disappointment . . ."

Rough Guide (1997)

No.

Pulled up here at 4, right on my so far favorite zocalo in Mexico. Great to feel Puebla warm and see it sunny. Wandered; admired the fine pre- and post-colonial architecture, crumbling and restored. Happened upon East Villagey scene a couple blocks from the zocalo, typhoons of music blowing out of all ten bars. Very different group from the crowd that we'd been among two weeks ago on Cinquo de Mayo. This one was smartly dressed and European looking. Had a couple; wandered more. Like this town.

Bus ride up. About an hour and half n. of Oaxaca we slipped into desert, where we stayed until the Puebla state line. Each twist reveled another cast of flora: shaggy fan palms vied with burly Joshua trees and a dozen (?) types of thorny cactuses and agaves. Some brown mountainsides were green with strapping saguaros (?); others had a motley collection of thorny succulents, all in a setting of mesas and eroded peaks in clear air. Stop this bus!

As we moved into Puebla and the desert faded, Orizaba soared ahead. Our driver noticed that we were admiring it.

"Pico de Orizaba."

"Si, gracias."

Then Ixta and Popo emerged from the Mex. City mist, the former remarkably arctic.

Mex City Airport, Sun, 1-27, AM

Apoala redux. Long day. Left town 8ish, stopped for alleged coffee in busy Nochixtlan before driving a few miles out of town on a dirt road, where we mounted our bikes in the cool morning, eschewing jackets or long sleeves. Clouds marched; rain threatened; spritz came, went, came, left. Remote: barely a house. Passed one rude, lonely place spilling canned mariachi. Nice. Farther, we entered a forest of scrubby oak-types, the only sign of humanity the gravel road beneath our tires. Remoter. Then after a long and breakneck descent through a lunar landscape we entered the unassuming hamlet of Tierra Colorada Apoala. The road ended, replaced by a much traveled burro trail, heading into a canyon. Adults appeared in their doorways; a group of young men approached to say hello. Best was the dozen children, 5-8, at recess, who ran to the edge of the paved playground, just a few yards from where the celebrities were catching their breath. They watched silently, never stepping off the asphalt. I tried to ignore all the attention, but it was hard not to watch back. As the kids gawked on, a couple of the young men asked us how we liked the town. We replied in something like Spanish that it was a beautiful. Then one suggested in English,

"Nice, huh?"

"Yes, very nice."

At my English the schoolchildren backed away as if I'd sprayed them with cold water.

Seeing this, Pedro offered them bananas (too high to grow them here). Stares. Then a timid, "Si," followed by a chorus and smiles. Next, he greeted the adults, who returned his warmth. His manner suggested that he'd grown up there and was tickled to be back. He then explained that Leonardo would join J and me for a hike through the canyon to Santiago Apoala, our destination. He would meet us there in his jeep.

Grand. The river coursed pure beneath stark 1000 (?) ft. walls. Robust agaves managed to poke out of just about every chink. When we got a little lower, Spanish moss decked the pine boughs. (At least I avoided "bearded" or "drenched.") More hiking, more canyon: a miniature Yosemite without the mobs, virtually without anyone. We passed several villagers and three Mexican tourists in the two miles (?) between Tierra Colorada and Santiago. The latter is tidy and relatively well to do. It occupies a mountain-framed fertile plateau, which in turn plummets another 1000 feet or so in the direction away from the canyon. The aforementioned waterfall dashes down about half of this. Hiked to its bottom. As we did the vegetation grew lusher. Stunted fan palms appeared, then stout ones, then ones half again as tall as me. We'd descended some 2000 feet from Tierra Colorada, and it was distinctly warmer here.

Before we hiked to the bottom of the waterfall we had stopped at the town's simple but attractive Tourist Yu'u. It's got three nice rooms and a lovely solarium, where they serve meals (with beer!).

We beat Pedro, who first had to drive all the way out from Tierra Colorada back into Nochixtlan, and then up a 26 mile dirt road to Santiago, 50 odd miles all told. Leonardo told the woman who seemed to run the place that we were waiting for Pedro.

"Martinez?" Her voice rang, eyes shone.

When Leonardo confirmed, she flipped on a high beam smile. After a few minutes he pointed out Pedro's truck, plying along far off and high up. We returned to the Tourist Yu'u post-hike for late lunch.

The drive out was magnificent. We circled high above the village, revealing mountain views in all directions and another canyon into the bargain. Some other day. The drive took us through the middle of nowhere villages of San Miguel Chicahua and Santiago Amatlan.