Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap--- tap---tap---tap-------tap------tap--------tap---------tap-----------------tap-------------------------tap----------ta………, the rain, drumming my tent most of the night with concerto vigor, starts to subside . Its morning. Without the rain distracting, I begin to discern the sounds of the Lacandon jungle surrounding me. Close, steps from my tent, the clear waters of Lago Miramar caressingly lap against the shore; farther, the birds chatter amongst each other, each with their own distinct stories to tell ; farther still, the howler monkeys do just that - they howl (if I didn’t know better I would assume they were forming a posse to come and tear into my two remaining snickers). I peek out my tent and see the sun cresting the horizon pushing itself up into a sky dotted with dark cumulus clouds, and on the edge of the lake I can see the silhouette of a Maya and his dugout canoe leisurely, without haste moving in my direction. Then, everything stops………..the stillness stirs an innate, primeval fear within….. and somewhere deep inside the forest of ceibas, zapote, twisting vines, scorpions, and all that is “the jungle” I hear a deep guttural, LOUD “RRRUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRR”. I have no idea what it is but I feel that fear take over my whole being. If this thing wants my snickers it can have it.

So I have left the coastal waters behind and entered into the land of the Maya, Chiapas. I have been here twice before, but arriving this time was much different. My arrival was physically and possibly (who knows) mentally analgesic. I moved from the steamy lowlands of civilization below and passed through a dense mist making my way up into the highlands. Within the mist, moving through their lives, were Maya indios (Indians) and to be rather straightforward it was dreamlike, and maybe I did think I was in some sort of dream. Maybe…this mist was a place to leave all that minutiae that we have touched on before, that complexity of élan, and move onto a place where simplicity takes over. It was refreshing. And then the dream was over and I arrived in San Cristobal de Las Casas but I felt somewhat cleaner in the soul. Weird.

Ocosingo, Chiapas to Emiliano Zapata (Lago Miramar)

I read about a lake while in San Cristobal that seemed a place where I could really get away from the crowds. A place that to get to you had to fly-there was a road but nobody ever goes down it because it is in Spanish muy horible and to top it off it passes through the strongholds of the Zapatista movement. Perfect! I get a late start because picante carnita needed a little loving (aka new brakes and some tinkering with her battery ((the heat of Michoacán evaporated all the distilled water)) and I ride through the rain for 2 hours to the town of Ocosingo, “Disculpe, cual direcion a Lago Miramar?”, “Lake Miramar, are you serious, you cant go there, the road is horrible at the best of times and it has rained for 3 days, no you cannot go!”. “Its not a problem my motorcycle is strong, which direction is it?”. I ask maybe 5 or 6 people how far it is and where is the road to make sure I am going the right way and under their breath they would say, the gringo is crazy, he will not make it to Lago Miramar, what about the Zapatistas (geez, you’d think I was planning a trip to the moon). Finally I’m on the road and I gotta say this was probably one of the better aventuras pequenas I have had to date. 140 kilometers of mud, rain, jungle (I felt like I was riding through a exotic bird store at times), mountain ranges, two crashes, rivers, stream crossings, and did I mention mud (lodo, lodo, lodo, freakin mucho lodo!). And of course picante carnita was the most popular of the two of us on this trip-I passed through maybe 5 towns (including La Liberdad, el centro de los Zapatistas) and when the children would see the bike they would come running out of their casas screaming “UN MOTO, UN MOTO, UN MOTO, MIRA, MIRA, UN MOTO”. If I stopped within 2 minutes the whole town surrounded me, the whole town! Obviously not so many gringos had passed this way before. The route there took 6 hours. When I left Ocosingo they said 8 hours and then in every town that I stopped in they would actually add more time “how far to lago Miramar, “for you 8 hours”, next town 2 hours later, “how far to the lake”, “the lake? For you 9 hours” , next town 45 minutes later “How far to the lake”, “Oh far, maybe 10 hours”. I arrived in the dark to Emiliano Zapata where I slept with two tarantulas, one scorpion, and a lot of noisy beetles and the next day I hiked to the below lago Miramar through mucho, mucho, lodo! Hoowaaaa! I was only the 3rd person at the lake in the month of January and according to my guide the first ever to arrive on a motorcycle. Alright JD and Jen your turn.

I apologize for not finishing the last story a week ago from Michoacán. I floated in the water on that beach, read my book, perused my brain, evicted the minutiae for 2 ½ hours which is how long it took to receive my delicious fish. Upon the arrival of the delicious fish the large, abuelita apologized for the tardiness of my lunch but she had an excuse. This was not a restaurant, but only her house and she thought I looked hungry so she fed me. She charged me 40 pesos, I gave her a 100 peso bill, wherein for change I was given 5 cervezas for the road (she didn’t have any change). Only in Mexico do you receive your change in beer at a restaurant that is not a restaurant on a hidden beach of transcendence. God I love Mexico!