Snapshots of the Malecon

Puerto Vallarta, a holiday Friday night, my last day in Mexico:

• A man standing with a big balloon, holding it by the end and thwacking it rhythmically in the air, bouncing it off his wrist.


• A young man standing with friends, in normal dress except wearing a pink bunny hat.


• Club Row, each with high ceilings, dark interiors, pounding with music, everything from techno to fifties, lit each with a different hue of low lighting, red, blue, pink, each vast cavern occupied by only a couple or two at 9:30, against the giant flashing video images, though the Malecon was thronged.


• A tall Viking goddess jogging past the crowds in spandex and bare feet.


• Random people crossing, or standing about in clutches, on the Malecon or sidewalk without regard to the predominant flow of people, as if they owned the space. Oh wait, they do.


• A couple of middle-aged Mexican men walking down the sidewalk, the heftier one in bright yellow tank top and shorts.


• A couple of stylish Mexican women standing on the corner in conversation, interrupted by a wiry, weathered blonde tugging a tiny dog on a leash who gets tangled up in one of the standing ladies’ ankles. She glowers at the gringa, who chides her pet and tugs it away.

"Go to the Jungle"

When I was in La Paz and told my neighbor, a former anthropology researcher, that I was going to San Cristobal, she said, "Go hang out in the jungle."

Hmm, I told her, I already did that in the Amazon, back in 2005. (Not to mention Costa Rica, where I'd more recently cut short a month's stay in a dark, locust-infested cabin).

Another friend emailed me saying, "Go to the Indian villages." And do what? I asked. "Visit the churches there."

Hmm, I thought, I already lived in Inuit villages for three years, spent a week in an African village. Been there done that. Not to mention churches, all over southern Europe (as well as all over San Cristobal itself).

But what the heck, I can go on horseback with a guide and it'll be an adventure. One sunny morning I showed up at the tour office at 9, waited half an hour for the guide, and finally the tour operator apologized, "The caballero doesn't answer his phone. Maybe another day?" I declined, figured it wasn't meant to be.

Still, cooped up in my one-room apartment for a month, I thought, I probably should go visit the Mayan ruins, or maybe the lake district. Even though I'd already climbed the pyramid at Teotihuacan, toured the Aztec ruins in Mexico City. Even though it gave me the creeps to read in the guidebook about the grisly purposes of these archaeological wonders.

So I came to my final week here, and ventured out in the rainy night to book my tour. The 15-hour trip to Palenque and the waterfalls was too much of a stretch, beginning at 5 a.m. The shorter trip to the Tonina ruins needed 4 passengers, which they didn't have. The third option, the 13-hour trip to the lakes, was still doable, but the rainy season had begun now and why would I want to ride a bus all day and evening to look at a lake in the rain for two hours?

Not that I'm complaining. I actually felt relieved. What I most wanted to do was stay in another day and work on my novel. Not very glamorous, I know. No pictures to share, no tales of exotic flora and fauna, no passing scenes of roadside forest, quaint lunch stops, colorful fellow travelers. Just, upon some later release, imagined scenes from an imagined world that never did and never will exist, except in the writer's and reader's imagination. Talk about virtual reality...

The thing is, what does it really mean, to "go to the jungle"? Am I going to paint my face and learn, in an afternoon or a week, to hunt tapir, or talk with jaguar? Am I going to weave and pray with the natives?

When I did go to Peru and "hang out" - for a week of solitary retreat, punctuated by nightly group ayahuasca sessions - what came to me (apart from the archaic visionary mosaics of the night) to fill the empty space was, like jungle growth filling the vacuum that nature abhors, plans and schemes of a literary nature.

The point being, "jungle" is a concept, to be interpreted as one needs. It could be learning primitive survival skills. Anthropological or ethnobotanical research. Plain tourism. Escape from urban congestion. Vacation. Relief of boredom: something to do, somewhere to go. Sheer curiosity. And that's all good.

Or, it could be: being at home with oneself, the jungle of one's own being, the ecosystem within one's own world of activity and potential. This primal realm risks encroachment from all sides by industry, tourism, urbanization, commercialization, technology, population growth. Inside the jungle of one's own being - bounded in my case, it now appears, for a full thirty days - the wildlife can be studied in depth; the native plants cultivated, nurtured; the language purified; the sense of home honored.

Yes, "go to the jungle," indeed, and hang out there. And please, report back on what you find.

---

Postscript, 26 April:
All that said, I did manage finally to "get out" of town, an hour-long trek into the hills. The skies were clear and the temperature perfect. Destination: Arcotete, a nature reserve featuring sculpted limestone. There is nothing, I realize with senses awakened, as intoxicating as the aroma of a highland pine forest, especially when clarified at 8000 feet. And nothing, after all, to substitute for the peaceful clarity of a mountain stream, or the craggy beauty of a natural cavern more sacred than any Gothic cathedral. All this, it turned out, for the invigorating effort of an hour's hike, ten pesos and a handy taxi ride back to town ... for a parting treat of Argentine lasagne and Italian cappuccino. Hasta luego, San Cristobal!

For more "Forest Walks and Other Exercises," see my new book just published this week:

My Country: Essays and Stories From the Edge of Wilderness

>> free on Kindle for the month of April <<

Why I May Not Visit the Mayan Ruins

Yeah, it's a trip out of town, through the fabled Chiapas jungle. The ruins are touted throughout the tourist world - lost cities of the ancient Mayans, those creators of the calendar that ended our old paradigm in 2012 (didn't it?). But I did see the other great pyramids of Teotihuacan, and, well, I climbed to the top, and... I saw the chambers in the square of Mexico City where the blood was spilled and... I see the pictures in the guidebook and read about the proud rulers who built by conquest and slaving and human sacrifice and... I wonder, where is the glory in all that? Why make a pilgrimage to sites of such barbarity?

A deeper question follows: Is it "cultural bias" to judge such civilizations and their works? Where do I get off in supposing a higher moral stance, me with my aviator shades and plastic credit, burning carbon and fiddling while the world slides to ruin?

Yes, it's a cultural phenomenon, awesome in its scope and longevity. Yes, we may gaze on the sheer wonder of these stone constructions somehow conjured out of jungle soil without metal tools or wheel. We may put aside all judgments altogether in the benign, objective acceptance of all that is, without prejudice. We may get over our own political correctness and realize the pitfalls of assigning labels of evil to others doing what they were equally convinced was correct.

So, we can go or not go. We can burn more carbon to see more evidence of human slaughter, and say, "It's all good." Or, we can sit at home with hands on lap, forgoing the effort of excursion, and say, "It's all good." For that matter, we can choose to go and judge, raging at the senseless waste of life and resources; or stay home on the same basis.

What will I do? Even with the possibility of the all-embracing forgiveness of all-that-is-and-was, I believe it's valid to hold certain standards for conduct: "Thou shalt not kill." You might say that it's not my place as another fallible human to judge, or even forgive. Fair enough; but neither am I obliged to respect or gaze with all-hallowed objectivity on the works of mass murderers. So maybe, instead, I'll go to the village where they make textiles, or to the lake in the ecological reserve.

Enough about me and lost civilizations. What about our current day and age, our present administration of works and policies. Do we accept and support, or judge and protest? It comes down to what is real within, what is truly felt. Then we will speak and act with that conviction.

Here is my piece, for today. What is your truth?