History, Frisbee, Mud Huts

A Little History
Hernan Cortez, the Spanish born merchant, landed in Veracruz, in what is now the Gulf of Mexico, in 1519, and soon proceded to conquer a land and an empire. He marched, with his small army, even smaller calvary, and few weapons, through the jungles, over the mountains, west, towards the Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan, in the central valley of Mexico, on top of which now lies the federal Mexican capital of Mexico City. He used cunning and trickery to make friends with foes of the aztecs taking advantage of the discontent among many of tribes of the Aztec empire, and buidling his army which would take down the empire out of these newly forged allies. The Tlaxcalan population provided countless bodies to exhaust in the front lines of this war. Part of the pact between the Tlaxacala people and Cortez was that the Spaniards could not build a city there, in Tlaxcala. This little pact is reflected today in the two separate cities of Puebla and Tlaxcala. The Spaniards marched just a bit south to build their well thought out, symmetrical city with luxurious buidlings, wide streets, and magnificent feats of architecture in the city of Puebla, just 30 km south of Tlaxcala. Tlaxcala was eventually influenced by the Franciscan monks who came to the city of Tlaxcala and left their mark in the very colonial and beautiful church next to the zocalo. Yet the city remains, quieter, with smaller street, and more humble buildings. Tlaxcala boasts one of Cortez's houses (now the government building next to the zocalo), and the first zocalo built in the New World. Puebla boasts the oldest library on the new continents, as well as many other magnificent works of architecture. Both Puebla and Tlaxcala lie just east of Mexico City, up and over a mountain pass over Cortez marched, that runs in between two snow capped moutain peaks. Both are worth a visit. It is a incredible feeling to stand in such historically significant places.

Exercise in Puebla
My host in Puebla was on an ultimate frisbee team. Finally, after some two thousand something miles, my orange frisbee that I have lugged with me from San Francisco was put to use. Also put to use were muscles that I figured would be in great condition but turns out weren't. The morning after ultimate frisbee practice, I could barely walk, let alone run, but I could sure as hell bike. I guess I am not in as great physical condition as I thought. Maybe what gets in conition condition on a ride like this is your will power...

Don't believe the hype
You would think that someone that spends as much time as he does navigating the dips and bumps, curves and straightaways, of all the major highways in Mexico would know a bit more about what the road does. From Puebla to Oaxaca, I took the federal toll road, Highway 135, which crosses a little over 200 km of hot and dry desert, valley, and forest-covered-mountains before dropping into the small valley in which Oaxaca lies. I knew I was going to have to climb at least the first day, at least thats what they told me... ´Pura subida hasta km 110´ they said. ´Pure uphill until km 110.´ I guess the uphills they knew quite well. And sure enough, I sweat and ached my way up many miles of pure sierra. After km 110 though, I was ensured that it was mas o menos pura bajada - pure downhill. And that is the kicker. Once you get an idea in your head of the road that follows, expectations grow inside you. It is these expectations that ruin your mood and make you feel like the world is against you when you encounter something contrary to what you expected. And yet I had to ask.
So as you can imagine, the road after km 110 was not pure downhill. Sure, it did offer some respite from the pure uphill that I had climbed until that point, but after every short descent there seemed to be an even bigger ascent. I spent the night, after 60 miles of this repitition, on a shepard´s ranch. I helped him corral his herd of sheep into their den and he let me set up camp wherever I pleased. The next morning, when I reached the second toll booth and asked them how the road was ahead, I expected the answer to be pure downhill. At least this man knew what he was talking about and did not lie when he told me I would be climbing the next 40 km. And yet, 40 km later, when I was expecting pure downhill the next 60 km to Oaxaca, you can imagine my mood when I came upon moutain after mountain. Not only this, but the downhills I did receive were ruined by a strong headwind that took all the fun out of descending. 30 km outside of Oaxaca, I was at a breaking point. My legs had no more push in them and I was out of water. I stopped at a small comedor (eatery) on the side of the mountain and downed a couple of drinks. There were a couple truckers there finishing up their lunches. I told them how some other truckers had informed me wrongly of the terrain up to that point. They laughed when I told them I had been told it would be pure downhill after km 110. I asked them how the road was from there to Oaxaca. They ensured me that from there to Oaxaca it was pure descent. I guess they had the last laugh. I struggled, huffed, and yelled to the sky that last 30 km and finally entered Oaxaca after a long, hot 70 mile day.

And now, a poem, a prayer, an offering entitled:

Lord, Thank You for the Mountains and the Wind

I will drink this beer, and drink it well, as I curse those mountains all to hell!
For what should have been an easy day, drained all my sweat 'neath the sun's ray.
As well the wind that cunning whore, can burn in flames for evermore...
For pushing against me as I drop, descent becomes a free ride lost,
and when I need it most the breeze, to cool me off she dissapears.
So falling quickly to my knees, I yell to the God that made these things.

Yet somewhere down inside my soul, stirs a peaceful feeling amidst the noise.
I'm humbled by forces I can´t control, and am simply happy I can enjoy
that I exist amidst all these things, the mighty mountains, the towering trees
the air that moves and shakes the leaves - Lord, thank you for the hills and breeze.

A Tamazcal in Oaxaca
I am a very blessed person. Last night, I was fortunate enough to participate in a very old indigenous cermemony under the leadership of a guide and twelve other companions called a Tamazcal. Tourists pay big bucks to experience this. I am lucky enough to be staying with a new friend who participates in this event periodically and so can enjoy it under the auspices of a friendly gathering and not a money making venture. Briefly, it consists of two hours of sitting, chanting, praying, and singing inside a very short and small dome shaped hut constructed of cane and mud. Throughout the time, volcanic rock that has been basking in a blazing bonfire outside the hut is brought into the hut, two by two, and placed in the center. Water is then thrown over the rocks, creating an intense steam bath. The whole process is very rejuvenating. Your body goes through the same thing it would go through during two hours of sitting in the sauna at you local gym. BUT, participating in this ancient ceremony, with a very spiritual aspect, with thirteen other strangers, a guide, in Mexico, on an almost full moon night, and chanting old inidengous songs, is something else.