Garden Of The Gods

After a week in the city of San Luis Potosi, we headed off again to the Huasteca region in the eastern part of the state (also named San Luis Potosi). The first stop was Rioverde, a shabby uninteresting town but the hotel had beautiful gardens. When we woke-up the first morning, the air was steamy and humid with birds so loud I thought I was back at the aviary in the Dublin zoo of my childhood.

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Rioverde is the gateway to a famous underground cavern called the La Gruta de la Catedral. It was reportedly down a long dirt track and after wildly exaggerated quotes to drive up there with a local guide, we decided to risk Pferdi’s delicate suspension and see just what the heck he’s made off. It was our first major off-road experience, 14 km each way but the bumping was worth it. The cave was literally as high as a cathedral with the most spectacular stalactites and stalagmites forming a pulpit, pews and…. a crocodile. The guide was an old fellow living in a tent at the mouth of the grotto. We only had flashlights but later a man from the village showed up on an Italika 150 with a speaker (you can’t go far in Mexico without hearing a speaker blasting something or other). This annoyed Fran hugely as he thought he was driving the equivalent of The Dakar up that rocky trail and now here’s a guy on a 150 cc road bike with a bloody stereo system tied to the back. Before we knew it, Carmina Burana was echoing off the ancient walls and my skin was crawling with goosebumps.

After saying our prayers, the old fellow took us down into the bowels of the cave opposite, reached by a hanging wooden bridge. For over an hour we descended 200 meters, crawled on our stomachs, hugged narrow ledges and climbed rickety ladders that were attached to a whole lot of nothing. Centuries of dripping water had created the most exotic formations, some worn so smooth they resembled wet marble. There were passages so tight even I had to wiggle my way through, all the while damping down the small flames of panic that threatened to ignite inside me. The walls and ceilings were white and glistening with crystal shards. Our guide, who had discovered the cave 5 years ago, said even the floor had shone and sparkled in the beginning, before people like us came with unforgiving boots and scuffed the glittering surface until it ground to dust.

Outside again in the sunlight, monarch butterflies danced and flitted through the trees and along the river banks, reminding me of my working days in Santa Barbara. It was nice to meet them at the other end of their journey. Our journey ended that day with a visit to the villages at the start of the dirt track and the loss of the sidecar brake linkage. Another thing to add to the Ural of Mexico parts list.

Xilitla

We left the pastures and valleys and climbed nearly 700 meters into the Sierra Gorda mountains. It seemed we were leaving civilization behind until we rounded another bend, the clouds cleared and colorful houses spilled over the hillside. This was Xilitla. We drove into town, narrow buildings stuck into overgrown lots like matchsticks and leaning like Pisa. Colorful, fairytale homes sidled up to grey, concrete shells covered in mold and moss. Getting out to ask directions, the place all of a sudden reminded me of pictures of Namche Bazaar in Nepal.

Isolated in the lush forest and high above the cloud line, it was warm and humid. My hair curled and my skin was constantly moist. Clean clothes in and out of the bags felt limp and damp. Every night the heavens opened and the deluge began. The scrap of yard beyond the porch outside our hotel room was a swamp. The rain bounced off the edge of the tiles and echoed through the tunnel of high walls that separated us from the street. Thunder like I’ve never heard boomed and I’m sure there was lightening but we were in the windowless basement and therefore in the dark. To top it all, the cock next door crowed all night, every night. Its screeches echoed off the tiles and after a restless, clammy night it was hard to know when dawn arrived.

The town was a busy place with streets that hung off the hillside and overlooked dense jungle. In spite of the bright colors, the atmosphere felt cheerless and different to the Mexico we'd experienced so far. Maybe the constant overcast sky and low clouds gave off a melancholy air. The local church and convent were in the midst of a renovation and looked very much the worse for wear. The walls were almost black with age and mildew. In the open-air market, Indian women stood by small patches of cloth, selling bunches of herbs, a few fruits, no more than 5 or 6 items. Thinking of the effort and optimism it must take to go out each morning with half a dozen items and compete with the larger stalls and shops was heartbreaking.

The Sculpture Gardens of Edward James

I first heard of the Gardens of Las Pozas while in Mazatlan. I couldn’t quite believe they existed but kept the picture alive in my mind until I could see for myself. With the rainy season started, I worried the visit would be a washout but by mid-morning the skies always cleared. We parked on the forest dirt road, directed by two self-appointed attendants. These guys however didn’t give off the same cordial vibes of the supermarket gentlemen who guide you into your parking space in the hopes of earning a few pesos. Here we paid upfront and got out of their way as quickly as possible.

We stepped into a fairytale world of subtropical rainforest. It was the Jungle Book crossed with Angkor Wat. Created by English poet Edward James and his Mexican friend, and no doubt inspired by the very artists he patronized, the gardens were a mysterious Eden hidden in the depths of the Mexican jungle. We spent hours exploring winding paths to nowhere and staircases leading to the sky, gothic arches framed glimpses of waterfalls and concrete gazebos suffocated under creeping vines. At the very end, the aquatic jewel, Las Pozas. The pools were at the base of the waterfall, roaring water and white spray rushing over stone steps and cascading into terraced ponds bordered by moss-ridden walls. Hollywood could not have imagined a more surreal paradise.

When it was time to leave, our hotel owner opened the garage gates and stood in his pajamas and Crocs in the rain, waving wildly. As lovely as the memories of this strange place were, I was glad to go. I could no longer abide the dripping leaves and the damp clothes. My skin itched without needing to be scratched. Even my notebook pages were drooping. I would miss my morning eggs cooked in giant banana leaves, but I needed to get back down under the clouds and feel the sun on my face. Most of all I wanted to look in the mirror and see straight hair again.