[lit-ideas] Re: The Ends of the World
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Mon, 03 Jan 2005 18:21:01 -0800
I have been off, inspecting the Yucatan, where the meteor that ended one
world--that of dinosaurs-- hit. I have been wandering among Mayans. And I
have been recovering from a bug, one with biceps the size of Bournemouth.
Were I to give you the idea that Mexico was warm and fun, I would only have
given you a part of the story. My wife was always more enthusiastic about
the prospect than I was. Two days into the trip, she asked me what I
thought. "I think Mexico is a dump," was my short summary. From the time
we landed to the time we emerged from the airport with a rental car was
about three hours. Why? The customs and immigration hall, where officials
slapped computers and one another's backs, and, where they one by one, waved
people into the country, overflowed with throngs, with hundreds if not
thousands of eager beavers who wanted to dive on reefs and into Cancun's
bars. It was a horror. Then I made the error of asking, when first they
offered us a rental car, whether they could change it for one that reeked
less of smoke. Of course they could. Away went the new rental car--new
means, old enough to have been smoked in, but not yet plated (who knows how
many years it takes to get plates in Mexico)--and along comes a Nissan with
45,000 miles on the clock, every panel dented, original tires, a smoky
interior that has been sprayed with some obnoxious--and possibly
noxious--"air freshener." Perfect. At least we didn't have to worry about
returning it scratched.
Out onto the highway we go, brushed to the side by buses with speed limits
marked in big numbers on the back of them, buses going fully fifty percent
faster than this. Brushed to the side by concrete trucks. Brushed to the
side by trucks with parts a'trailing. On one occasion we were stopped by an
accident. A bus had run into the back of a VW bug. Fortunately it was an
old bug, with the engine in the rear and so the occupants lived. But it
being a two-lane road, we all stopped. There was nowhere to go. Or so I
thought. First, cars from the opposite direction began filtering around the
accident, four-wheeling their way through the off-road dirt and around the
blockage. Then the Federales came by on my left, lights flashing, playing
"chicken" with those who were coming at them in the other lane. Then people
behind me, deciding that the police were like a tank attack, formed up
behind the Federales and drove down that lane. Then those who were annoyed
that they had missed an opportunity began an alternate movement, passing me
in the breakdown lane at break-kneck speed. Clearly by staying put I showed
I lacked either machismo or the jolly-happy-go-luckiness for which Hispanic
peoples are reknowned.
And everywhere we went, at every turn, someone wanted to sell us something.
I think the best tourist stand that we failed to visit was in a backroads
town that hosted a jail. Underneath the watchtowers were promises of
"Handicrafts made by prisoners." I was curious until, slowing, I saw that
by some extraorinary chance, the prisoners had made identical copies of the
"handicrafts" that are for sale at every other stall in the Yucatan.
One highlight was climbing the Mayan pyramid at Cobe and gazing out over
uninterrupted miles of carpet-like jungle. The region is totally flat.
Imagine Nebraska covered with rather large and dense rhododendrons. Somehow
then climb a doublesized grain silo and you have the notion. A view for
miles and miles. No wonder the Mayans liked heights. The trick with
pyramids, of course, is not falling off. The nearest road is a couple of
kilometers from the pyramid and the nearest to an ambulance is a guy with a
bicycle and a kind of gardener's cart. We climbed with a girl who seemed to
think that shoes were superflous, and a guy who was about two hundred pounds
over ideal weight. Both also survived.
On Hogmannay at our house there was a sweepstake, of the kind you find among
the servants in P.G.Wodehouse. How late would the master of the house
manage to stay awake? By the substitution of antibiotics for champagne, the
pundits' predictions were proved wildly wrong, and the cat Jeeves scooped
our pool, with fifty pence on twelve thirty.
How have you all been?
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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