The award (so far) for our most third world/creative mode of transport goes to riding in the back of a packed pick-up truck from Zipolite to Pochutla. The pick-up looked able to fit about six, but we had at least twice that at any given time, not including our two backpacks which are easily as big as two people themselves. We are really earning our backpacker merit badges now.
We wander the crowded main street of Pochutla, wearing shoes for the first time in five days and sweating in our pants and t-shirts, looking for the bus terminal. We are clueless but are rescued by a stranger who approaches us in English - with beards and hiking boots we never have to worry about blending in - and asks where we are going. Turns out he used to live in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn where he worked as a cook in an Italian restaurant. He´s helpful and chatty and he walks us all the way to the terminal and even arranges the tickets for us. He makes the world feel like a bit of a smaller, friendlier place.
Yet another bus ride in the dead of night brings us to the mountain highlands of Chiapas, in the town of San Cristobal de las Casas. We are high up now and you can feel it. It is quite cold at 6:30 when we get off the bus and the air is crisp, clean, and thin - a definite change from the blistering heat of the Pacific shore. Our hostel - Le Gite del Sol - is lovely and cheap and very clean and has a floor. And five thick woolen blankets folded at the end of the bed. An ominous sign, indeed. But we can´t check in to our room until 11AM. So we are turned out onto the streets to wander and eat and snap photos. Fine. This is what we do best. If we were getting paid, this would be our job.
San Cristobal is touristy and for a reason. The streets are of cobblestone and the buildings are every color of the rainbow. The town is like a wonderfully woven quilt. It is also a political hotbed of revolutionary activity. This is where the Zapatista movement began. I love a good story involving gun-toting liberals who are mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore. Power to the people, down with the wealthy land owners and all that. So, you know, this place is right up my alley. I consider buying a hand-sewn Zapatista figurine, but they look upsettingly like terrorist voodoo dolls. And I don´t need the hastle back at US Immigration. Honestly, when you are sporting passport stamps from Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua and Colombia, you really need all the help you can get.
After our fourth or fifth artesania crafts market, a few cups of Chiapan coffee with brandy, and a whirl through the fruit and veggie market, we both start to feel pretty run down. Despite our five day chill out in Zipolite, we have been keeping a pretty hectic pace. And being slaves to the Almighty Budget, we don´t always get the best night´s sleep on those grueling overnight buses. So we decide to rest in the late afternoon. We both have headaches and I wake up from a short nap feeling ache-y and irritable (which William will probably tell you is actually not that abnormal). We attempt to get some dinner, but after a few minutes outside we start to crash. Back in the room, William is running a high fever and alternating between sweats and chills. We mentally go back through everything we have eaten in the last two days and can come up with nothing out of the ordinary (well, for us, anyway). We are either both dying slow Mexican deaths or we may have soroche. Altitude Sickness. Without webmd.com to self-diagnose, this is what we come up with. Our guidebook even warns against rapidly ascending to high altitudes. Seeing as how we have just skyrocketed from sea level to 2000 meters (about 6,600 feet) this seems to be a reasonable bet. Except William is really sick. His fever is really off the charts and he is having trouble breathing. We don´t need those wool blankets because William is generating enough heat to warm the entire hostel. I am worried but have no idea what to do. We are both scarfing down fistfulls of aspirin with little affect. I can´t remember anything about home health care from my childhood. Do you feed a fever and starve a cold? Take a hot shower or a cold shower? Drink a fifth of whisky and pray for death?? I don´t know. I went to theatre school. I can act like a nurse, but that´s as far as I go.
By morning, I feel better and William´s fever has mysteriously broken, though we are both still weak and sore. No rest for the weary, though, as we push on to our next destination, Palenque. My un-trained, non-medical opinion (which William calls "my bullshit") is that we need to get back to a lower altitude. Palenque fits the bill - it is in the middle of the jungle. And, healthy or not, we´re headed there. On another damned bus....
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