It’s Not Every Day - St Cristobal to Panajachel

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In light of my adventures around the globe, I often get asked:
a) do I get tired?
b) do I get strange rashes?
c) do I have any outstanding warrants for my arrest?

While the answer to all three is no - so far - I do however rate my success by a very simple phrase: “It’s not every day that you…”
And so, in my odd, little travel-motivated world, this last week has been immensely satisfying, and here’s why:

It’s not every day that you float past a giant crocodile beneath narrow cliffs that tower 1000m high

We’re still in Mexico, about an hour’s drive from St Cristobal de las Casas, our last stop in the Chiapas region, and the country itself. St Cristobal is one of those cobble-stoned, colonial towns that charm the hell out of you. You know, the green, leafy plaza, the brightly painted shops alongside narrow streets and 16th century churches. It’s big with the gringos, specifically the Europeans, and so the town center has coffee shops and vegetarian restaurants and a sweet knick-knack paddy whack market (to give the stray dogs a bone). All rather pleasant, but not as exciting as say, speeding on the Rio Grande beneath massive cliffs where the Maya Indians once hurled themselves to their deaths, rather than work as slaves for the conquering Spanish. Sumidero Canyon is located in a national park that houses many exciting species of flora and fauna, which I might have seen if I wasn’t gazing up all the time. I had however hoped to spot a “cocodrillo”, for ever since I cradled a baby saltwater croc in Malaysia I think they’re kinda cute in that rip-you-to-pieces kind of way. Esrock: not quite the Crocodile Hunter, more like, the Crocodile Lover! So it was thrilling to float alongside a large adult, gracefully gliding along away from the kids swimming just a few hundred meters upriver. I’d like to regale you with dozens of facts and figures of the region except the guide spoke only Spanish, which was poorly translated for us by a French-Canadian kid sporting mirrored aviator sunglasses. Something about the Rio Grande, something about the 6th biggest hydro-electric dam in the world, that sort of thing. Meanwhile giant pelicans, various storks, and rat-faced buzzards were gliding in our slipstream, with the blue sky framed by the towering limestone cliffs into a shape resembling Africa. As the warm wind blew my hat behind my back, I imagineded Evel Knievel trying to leap across the canyon, and I imagined Evel Knievel falling terribly short, plummeting 1000m, and being torn to shreds by a hungry crocodile. What would the croc make of the crash helmet? As I followed this line of thinking to its illogical conclusion, the boat raced back into the town of Chiapa de Corzo, and it was time to head back to St Cristobal for the salsa dancing.

It’s not every day you hear Shania Twain, the Village People, and the Black-Eyed Peas played to death in a Salsa Club

Boy, was I looking forward to Salsa dancing. A few weeks before I left on this trip, I participated in a Salsa Bootcamp, an intense weekend of dance lessons. You can read about these adventures in Modern Gonzo Does the Salsa, save to say that I was feeling well cocky at my ability to do the basics, the Cumbria, the Cross Body Lee (which, I later found out, is actually “cross body lead”). Of course, it all went out the window when Val - Tucan guide, Australian, up for a pint - arranged a salsa lesson. The instructor, who doubled as our server the previous night, spoke no English and seemed more eager to hold the ladies than show us any instruction, which is fair enough. By the end of the hour, I had successfully tied Nicole into a knot, Mel into a figure eight, Emma into spider web, and Annabelle into a fishing net. The instructor, however, had no problem spinning them this way and that, nigh a drop of sweat on his greased black ponytail. Later, at the salsa club, I was looking forward to channeling my bootcamp maneuvers, except the band quit after three songs and was replaced by a DJ with a fondness for Shania Twain. This I could handle, maybe, once a decade, but the previous night we had partied at a Top 40 club and I received my recommended annual allowance of shite music. When I hear Fergie singing about her “lovely lady lumps”, I keep wondering if she’s referring to her recent mammography exam. I sat out YMCA, as I’d heard it three times this week already and my memories of watching Can’t Stop the Music as a five-year-old were starting to rattle me. By the way, I once played the “Biker Guy” from Village People in a school play, complete with fake mustache and black leathers. I was only 11 years old - no wonder I’m so traumatized! “Man, I feel like a woman!” screeches Shania Twain, to which Val responds “or two!” Music of this nature is supposed to be experienced on only the rarest occasions (weddings, acts of torture) so to hear it on consecutive nights sent me into the streets, where I found solace in an electronica club full of creepy Latino hippies with odd haircuts and black circles around their eyes. Perhaps it’s a sign that the next time someone suggests Salsa, I should whip out the taco chips and leave dancing to the professionals.

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