flutter byes

So whooped. But must chronicle.

My Mexico City chapter is about to come to a hectic close. But I'm pretty sure that in Mexico City, that's how it must be. In the past week I've returned from Oaxaca; gone to the dentist; drunk free wine at a friend's art opening; worked from home in a plastic chair and developed back problems; interviewed an indie band on the day of their D. F. debut while strongly regretting my choice of outfit; and made significant headway into packing by matching up all of my stray socks. And so, Mexico City, this is our fond and frenzied farewell before I move onto a greener, quieter, and probably boring-er place.

I only wish I had taken more time during this past week to remember to buy clean water. With no water at home and me being busy, I wound up having no choice but to hydrate myself with lots of coffee, or eating a cucumber before bed, or squeezing the daylights out of an orange this afternoon while on a huge failure of a hike (see below).

Butterfly sanctuary? more like CEMETERY.

The hike was through the famous El Rosario Monarch butterfly reserve in the mountains of Michoacán. Supposedly on a sunny day (i.e. every day in Mexico, or so I thought) you can see "rivers of butterflies" there. So my friends and I excitedly made the four-hour drive, only to watch the sky mysteriously darken as we pulled into the parking lot. Two hours later, we were huffing and puffing (and squeezing oranges for dear life) after a 100% uphill climb. 

We found ourselves in a massive butterfly dormitory, staring up at cloudy skies and gazillions of passed-out butterflies. They clung to tall pine branches by the thousands, heavy as bananas but about as exciting as dry leaves. We then realized that they were bracing themselves for a hailstorm, which would proceed to appear out of nowhere. Before we knew it we could see our breath, and were pelted with ice all the shrieking, arm-flailing way down. The highlight was when I wiped out in the mud, and the elderly Mexican woman who caught me then scolded me for running downhill.

Audio Postcard: Waters of Chiapas

Back home, lots of times when I'd ask Mexican immigrants where they were from, they would say Chiapas.

Then I would nod and say, "oh sí, Chiapas," because, like Krakow or Nagasaki, I had heard of it. I knew what country it was in but not much else, and would be darned if I could find it on a map. I proceeded to feel bad when this made them raise a hopeful eyebrow and ask, "you've been there?"

"Er, no," I'd say, "but hopefully someday."

Deep down I didn't think I'd ever go there. This was mainly because I imagined Chiapas to be like a desert: dry, impoverished, and full of the kind of struggling pueblos that people have to migrate away from. In the world map of my mind, which despite my B. A. in International Studies still closely resembles the one I had in fourth grade, I spiced up my image of Chiapas with some horses and ranches, for no reason other than that Chiapas sounds kind of like "chaps."

Surprise...I was way off. Turns out Chiapas is deep green, lush, and next to Guatemala. I didn't come across a single horse or ranch, but I did see electric-blue waterfalls and sprawling Mayan ruins, all of which, I repeatedly psyched myself, have been quietly tucked into the mountains since long before the notion of a New World meant anything.



But being rural and relatively isolated, the struggling pueblos are definitely there. From inside my air-conditioned bus, I could see lights shining through the gaps in wooden shacks, and smoke from cooking fires piping out of rusted chimneys. It made me think ahead, to my return to the U. S. and my next conversation with a chiapaneco—a native of Chiapas—since I now have a better picture of what they left behind.

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