Cuetzalan

May for most Wisconsinites is the best weather - highs tickling 80 degrees during the sunny days, and the nights, cool and comfortable. Not true in Izucar. Mexican May equals our sweaty August. It's close to 100 in the afternoon, and I think it may even be hotter at night. The University doesn't have a summer break, but lucky for us, May is full of puentes to escape the heat and find a comfy hotel with cold air-conditioning.

I found out on Wednesday that April would blend into May with a four-day weekend celebrating International Labor Day.  In addition to the metric system and International Women's Day, May 1st is another concept shared around the world with the exception of the US.  Surprisingly, its roots stem from a general strike in  Chicago in 1886. The strike went horribly wrong, ending in the police shooting dozens of protesters and several of their own men.  The demonstrators were fighting for a an 8-hour workday.

I decided I couldn't spend four days cooped up in my tiny pink apartment, trying to stay cool in front of a fan blowing hot air at me, staring at facebook. I hopped on tripadvisor and decided Cuetzalan would be the perfect pueblo mágico to spend a few days in. 

Cuetzalan is located in the Sierra Norte of Puebla. It's a four-hour bus ride winding up and around luscious green hills.The scenery is spectacular, high rolling hills, waterfalls cascading into a long river that cuts through the valley. The bus speeds around sharp curves, and I find myself repeating aloud "Please slow down, please slow down, please slow down." We come to a screeching halt as another bus charges around a corner nearly slamming into us. The driver takes it a little easier. 

I arrive and find myself in a bus station bombarded with middle-aged men trying to sell me tours and hotel rooms. I pretend I don't understand and pick out a 10-year old kid with a binder filled of fun weekend activites. I ask him to help me get to my hotel. 

Jorge guides me down a steep narrow street - I am wearing expensive Tevas, but still find myself slipping on the smooth cobblestone path. I want to stop for a picture, but he jarts through the market crowd in the zocalo, and I'm afraid I'll lose him. He leads me safely to my hotel for 20 pesos; I check in, and crash on my bed while I catch my breath.

After unpacking, I decide to check out the little pueblo mágico. It is centered around the town square, or zócalo, with a magnificent cathedral, various restaurants and bars, and venders selling typical Mexican artisanias y comida. I buy an elote (corn on the cob smothered in cheese, mayonaise, and chili powder) and walk around until a find a fountain in the middle of a roundabout - a good spot for people watching. Lots of Mexican families come here for mini-vacations during their puentes; also, I hear Spanish accents (meaning from Spain), and a group of university students speaking German. 

Steep pedestrian sidewalks keep these Mexicans in great shape.

Yep, that's a REAL pig head. This little piggy didn't make it out of the market...

Tacos del pastor? Pork is cut up and placed on the Trompo where it spins,
cooking along side the fire until it is sliced and put into your taco.
PS. It smells way better than the pig head.

I find a tour guide office selling a variety of adventure tours, repelling, ziplines, spelunking, and hiking tours through the numerous cascadas (waterfalls). I sign up for a combination of hiking and cave exploring tour with the group of Germans. 

The next day, however, I wait over an hour for my compañeros to arrive. While I'm waiting I notice scraggly bearded man wandering around the plaza. His tall and lanky - not the typical poblano I'm used to seeing in this state. He is wearing the typical garb of the locals though, white shirt with a hand-embroidered design, and white linen pants that wrap instead of buckled at the hips and calves, and of course, a straw sombrero. 

His beard throws me off - he looks like the homeless guys that hang out in the zócalo of Izucar.  Yet, he wears heavy-duty Chaco sandals and carries a NorthFace backpack. 

The girl working at the tour office, apologizes and says the tour has been canceled. But, she says the "profe" knows this area very well and will take me to some lugares desconocidos if I would like. I know instantly the "profe" is the odd man from the plaza as he ducks out of the office and tells me to wait while he changes into some hiking boots.

We walk about 1 1/2 miles to a nearby town named San Miguel Tzinacapan. On the way, I find out my tourguide is a history and language professor at the prestigious UNAM in Mexico City. He travels to Cuetzalan many times a year, just to hike through its natural beauty. He tells me that the land is inhabitated by two different tribes, the Nahuatl (NAH-wah-tl) and the Totonaca, each with their own language, customs and traditions.

We stop and wait as a funeral procession goes by. I do a quick estimation - over 200 people walk behind the family carrying candles and flowers. The profe tells me no matter if the deceased is known or not, the entire town will walk with the family as a sign of respect and honor. 

We turn a corner and head down a long cobblestone road; I'm practically skipping as I try to keep up to the long-legged professor - he is the fastest-walking Mexican I have ever met. We pass many añcianos (men and women in their 60s and 70s - or maybe even older) climbing up the steep hill - dressed in typical white clothing with colorful embroidery. Some of them are barefoot, carrying bundles of wood on their heads. These are obviously not tourist-hiking grounds. This is an everyday trail where burros and horses are the luxury transportation, and everyone is hard at work.

A little manmade cave along the trail.

We continue for about an hour and a half, and I look back up the steep mountain and wonder where I can rent a burro to carry me back up. We finally reach a clearing where water cascades over slippery rocks - I take off my shoes and wade through the freezing water. It feels amazing on my sore, tired feet. 

After wading around for a half hour, the profe looks towards the sky and tells me we better get back before the rain starts. We have over seven kilometers to climb.

I'm not sure how it is possible, but my tour guide walks up hills faster than he runs down them. I keep up for the first kilometer; we chat a little; he seems surprised when I tell him my age - he notes I must be in pretty good shape. This makes me climb a little bit faster. 

Another kilometer, though, and  I notice the air is thin and breathing is getting harder. I keep moving my aching legs and see that the profe is now a good twenty steps in front of me. I stop and catch my breath, and the profe laughs. He assures me when we reach the top I will feel amazing - any negative feeling I have in my body will be aspired and I will feel at peace. I'm glad he's 20 steps ahead because at this moment, I want to push him off a cliff. 

A half hour later, the profe is now so far ahead of me that when I wind the corner, hoping to see the end, he's disappeared into the horizon. I meet a man leading a burro down the steep hill; I briefly consider asking for a lift. But I ignore the urge and continue.

Soon, my lungs can't take in enough air, and my hips, thighs and calves are screaming at me. I concentrate on the rough terrain, careful not to trip on the loose rocks and branches that litter the path - and also remember the warning of poisonous snakes that could dart out at any given moment. I hear something behind me - an anciana, with a load of wood on her head, passes me with ease. She's at least 40 years older than me and barefoot. Echale ganas, gringa - I suck in as much air as I can and keep going.  

I see the profe finally, waiting for me at the 6 km mark and realize I have almost made it. We walk the rest of the way together, at a considerably slower pace. When we reach the city I turn around and look down at the steep trail I just about died on. I take in a deep breathe and exhale all the negative energy accumulated in my tired bones and muscles. I feel great.

We hike back to the zocalo of Cuetzalan, passing through the market place - we stop several times for various townspeople to greet and pay respects to the profe. I realize he is a very important man in this town. We end at my hotel - I shake his hand and offer him 200 pesos for the amazing journey - he smiles and gently refuses - "El gusto fue mío;" he says and disappears into the crowd.

The next day, I'm exhausted, but know I cannot leave Cuetzalan without exploring its famous grutas (natural caves). I arrive at the tour guide office, and they find me 17-year-old Armando to take me on a grutas y cascadas tour.  We walk an easy 2K to reach the first gruta. Just as we enter, Armando points my lantern to a few bats sleeping upside down about a foot above us. He assures me that they are murcielagos de fruta (fruit bats). I want to tell him I'm not worried about them sucking my blood, I just don't want to contract rabies. But I don't know how to say "rabies" in Spanish so I put on my fake relieved face and continue.  

Armando is ahead and slips and contorts his body to fit through the narrow crevices. As I clumsily do the same, I picture myself in that Indiana Jones movie -  rats and snakes and lots of creepy arthropods - I don't see any of these things of course, but I carefully place my hands on the cleanest rock, noting there are a lot worse creatures than bats. 

We come to the first of many freezing natural underground springs. Armando tells me that if it rains, the water quickly will reach the ceiling (of which I keep bashing my helmet into). He jumps in and starts swimming. I slip in slowly, the air knocked out of my lungs from the icy cold water; I reach desperately for solid ground with my soaken tennis shoes, but it doesn't exist, and so I start to swim. 

Day 3 in Cuetzalan: Waterfalls and Cave exploring - so worth the ruined tennies. 

A watertight backpack always comes in handy.

The cave exploration ends after about an hour, and we hike to a few waterfalls; I'm already soaked so I dive in, clothes and shoes and all.

After the day before's hike - trekking to these 2 fabulous waterfalls was a breeze.

Awesome swimming spot.

After a relaxing swim, Armando takes me to one more unusual cavern. Before we enter, he warns me that it is haunted. He tells me of a story of a disaparecida - a girl disappeared 20 years ago, her brutally beaten body was found in the cave. Soft female echos are heard at night here. Armando tells me he never ever comes here alone, and especially never at night. 

We enter the huge cavern; it has high ceilings; stalactites appear to be dripping from above. It doesn't appear to go too far back, and we aren't there for long. Okay by me, as I'm a little creeped out. 

Before we leave its darkness, Armando says to himself, "Armando, ya vamanos." - Armando, let's go. He looks at me to do the same. Apparently, if you do not tell yourself to get the heck out, your soul will be trapped there forever. 

"Dianna, ya vamanos" I say, and hurry towards the exit.