for a new visa

there are places you don't write home about. tapachula, mèxico in the state of chiapas is one of them. travelers pass through on their way from san cristobal de las casas to the beaches or vice versa. they spend the night before crossing the border into guatemala or upon arrival from that country to the south. i joined this latter group and simply wanted a safe hostel with good cafes near by to pass the three days before i can return to guatemala with a new visa. i could find that eight hours to the north in the colonial town of san cristobal de las casas, but i am not interested in passing another day in a bus.

yesterday, i crossed two borders: el salvador-guatemala and guatemala-mèxico. from the time we left rancho palos in el salvador to when i could grab a pen and jot a few thoughts before dozing off to sylvio rodriguez, fourteen hours had passed. cecilia and i parted in esquintla. she, to continue on to casa guatemala and i, to the next border.

the information in the central america guide book stops at the border. it does include a section on the yucatan and chiapas, but their chiapas is limited to san crisobal de las casas and palenque, the archeological site, way up north (or is it east from here? el salvador has confused me).

i woke up this morning with the fan blowing on me thinking: i could be content here for a few days. these are days that despite the tears of reflection, i wake up giving thanks, a strange impulse that hastened overcome me, in a long, long while. sure there are times i have to remind myself to be thankful, make a mental list of the positive, but these impulses have occurred in the raw moments upon waking. signs of internal change, i say. i hope it lasts.

so, i left the hotel del terminal open to staying or going, to where, i was not sure. i walked up to the central park on an inclined street lined with vendors. an every day open market. old men and women selling chicken and fish sat lazily waving hand made pom-poms to keep the flies away. in the park the mèxican military hung recruitment banners, and even though shops were slow to open, the children with clown faces stood at the intersection juggling for change. the only indigenous people around crouched on the side walk. they were like statues with their hands out held and heads bent. the mexican bank tellers, just as i remember; they avoid eye contact, do not say hello, do not offer explanations, and the only indication that the transaction is over is that the money has been pushed towards the client with out being counted.

i ordered an orange juice and huevos rancheros and considered. san cristobal is known and far away. the beach is unknown and close.

i am here in puerto madero near playa san benito. it is hot, or as the spaniards say: it is so hot that you shit yourself (un calor que te cagas). many empty palapas line the beach and restaurants with music, lights and no customers. if i had a travelling partner, we would venture out to the barra and walk for miles and look for the paradise shown in the movie Y Tu Mama Tambièn. but where i am at, is nice enough to finish another book, begin preparing for my new job, and drink a beer as the sun sets.