MEXICO II

Returning from Museum of Anthropology on metro— sitting across from me: a young man with Indian features whose rotund skull and placid yet stern countenance reminded me of the mammoth Olmec head sculptures.
 

Next to him sat a man with distinctly Spanish features: sharper nose, angular face, expression of anxiety and unrest (A Spanish-looking head just wouldn't look right sitting heavily under jungle canopy, rooted to the ground-- One would expect such a sculpture to move on its own accord, capsize with an expression of agony, roll down the mossy slope in search of a parking lot or locutorio). As I imagined this graceless Spanish monument the train slowed to a stop, whereupon I was presented with the miraculous sight of a real Olmec head sculpture, through the window, exactly between these two varied types of human head, like those I had just seen at the museum, resting on the train platform. It took me a moment to realize that the vision was real, and that the head was a replica being employed as a decoration for the metro station, and that in appearing magically before me, between these two Mexican men, it meant to say: "don't count me out, I'm the real thing," or " I only I can pull this shit off, rooted to the ground so peacefully providing human characteristics to the landscape."

X.E.U.G. 970 Khz A.M. Radio Universidad de Guanajuato

Habitación Económico, 10 dollars a night, tile floor, small shower/toilet (faint reek of sewage), framed picture of some ecclesiastical detail or other, hung almost apologetically. Window with randomly alternating clear and frosted panes, opening onto back street, entrance to underground tunnel. Roar of trucks from tunnel-mouth. Tuning my quartz radio to Radio Universidad de Guanajuato. Beatifically I sip tequlia blanco from a plastic cup. Johann Christian Bach, tunnel roar, and soft cluckings of two palomas above my window.

Conejo.
-Has visto Conejo?

RB: three legs of human table



Conejo stands me up or is 30 minutes late.
    I don't wait more than 30 minutes for anyone, regardless of cultural attitudes towards punctuality. Somehwat morosely, I drank some yogurt and read Bolaño.
    Finished Book 1 on the steps of Teatro Juarez, then returned to my habitacion feeling accomplishment, light hunger, resentment, longing, and maybe weariness. After resting for a moment I went to the 6 peso/hora internet cafe to find waiting in my inbox a notice informing me that I had been accepted to the UPenn Comp Lit doctoral program with a full fellowship guaranteed for five years. Though I've sung "Odara" out loud while walking in public before, I've never sang it quite as loudly as I did while heading directly from internet place to the bar where Conejo told me I could drink mezcal.
    (one mezcal natural ... Pancho enters and orders one de naranja ... he recognizes me from bar before ... I buy him and myself both another naranja ... seeping gregariousness and jubilation from every pore ... older Mexican with veritable chorus of empty bottles before him teases me, in good humor ... buys me another naranja ... I buy one more for Pancho ... three mezcals to the face ... Pancho and I make wobbly exit into full light of mid-afternoon, three mezcals to the face ... sunglasses, "tienes hambre?")

Malinalco, ancient stairs to sacred spring.

"Chalma, Chalma"— Mexican pine bus to Chalma. Trucha shacks dot piny hillscape, rural Mexicans on four-wheelers, chorizo verde drying in sun as if opiate vision. Mexican pines. Combi to Malinalco. Offered ride to Toluca. Bus back to DF Norte. Split-decision overnight bus, 14 hours to Chiapas. Worth mention: overwhelming humidity when stretching my legs at Veracruz bus station, sitting next to me Enrique, young evangelical priest who shakes my hand heartily, with hearty wafts of cologne, prays solemnly before devouring chilaquiles at next rest stop, 5 am awake to bluing mist and palmed hills, what on earth are you doing hacking away with a machete on the roadside at 5 am?

Palm and pine Chiapas

Deep in tierra de Zapatistas. Palm and Pine, Palm & Pine, Pine and pines, and palm and pine. Pine and palms together. what a hill.

Later, driving back: heavy dusk, falling cool over Zapatista hillsides. Heavy green, fresh heaviness. Cool pathways. 13-odd Chiapaneco youths wearing rubber ghoul masks, some bearing clubs or sticks, a roadblock of sorts. In middle of dark mountain road, what do they want? Just to bang on the hood a bit and give an extranjero a bit of a scare, probably.

Toniná , solito: Tan lindo que no puedo creerlo.

A waking dream. Felt like trespassing. Lack of authority, also dream-like. Knelt down in front of deity, apologetically.



Sundazed in Toniná

Climbed to top tower, sun dizzy on top, circling hawk. Jacaranda growing out of stone structure. Sole security guard still napping in shade. Hawk still circling above my head.