Each day we'd get up and explore the city, one of the largest in the world. It never got boring. We'd hop on the subway for a dime, choose a destination at random, get out wander around. One of the nuns at the orphanage had a nephew named Miguel who took a liking to us and took us under his wing. He took us out to Teotihuacan, the Aztec capital where we climbed the pyramids and visited the gardens at Xochimilco (written about by Paramahansa Yogananda in Autobiography of a Yogi as the most beautiful place he'd seen. Time had not been kind to the floating gardens, but I digress). Below is a photo of Miguel and his children from that day with a pyramid in the background:

We had also met a Colombian priest through the nuns at the orphanage. He was from a wealthy family. He must have taken pity on us and our complaints that of all the things we missed, steak and potatoes were near the top. He offered to take us out to some swanky restaurant to have a meal like no other. Oh yum, I could hardly wait. We chose a night to meet. That afternoon we spent with Miguel who wanted to treat us to lunch. He took us to a small restaurant to have a traditional Mexican dish, pozole. He was excited for us to share this treat. Let me say that Miguel was quite poor, but generous beyond limits. Wherever we went he insisted on paying. So our soup arrived. It was thin broth with a few small pieces of meat and hominy. I was appreciative, believe me. But hominy soup was not what I craved at the time. I knew that evening we'd be wined and dined, so I didn't mind that I was still a bit hungry. When we got back to the orphanage later, the priest came to pick us up for dinner. On the drive he said that we'd be going to his place to meet up with a bunch of his students who were near our age. A party. Up in his apartment he made us feel at home. He brought out a curiosity to show us, an original bottle of Napoleon Brandy from the 1800's. But he didn't open it for us...oh well. Then 5 or 6 kids showed up. They had decided that instead of going to a restaurant that they'd fix a super meal there. We started with some hot cocoa into which we melted some soft cheese, really delicious. Then for the main course. Can you guess? Pozole. Pozole! AAAAHHHH. I laughed and cried at the same time. I'm sure there is some cosmic lesson in that. 

So the next day we had to make our way back to the Gigante shopping center for our 16-cent burgers. At least we had Gigante, burgers and fries for just pennies. We ate there almost every day. Eating was a big part of the adventure of travel. We ate a lot of street food, some of which was excellent and cheap. Mexico City has every kind of food of course, and we soon found a Pizza Hut. Not exactly American style, but ok. As we came out we ran into an American woman, jungle clothes and a big backpack. She asked us how the pizza was. We got talking to her - Benita, sharing travel stories. She had travelled by herself around the globe and had some great insights for us. She was on her way to South America too. By amazing coincidence, our paths would cross again.

After a week or so I started to check in at the Post Office to see if our tent had arrived. No luck. After a couple weeks had passed, I was getting anxious. The clerk insisted it hadn't come yet, and told us to be patient. While we spoke, I looked behind him to a shelf where I saw the tent! The package was torn and I recognized the blue ripstop nylon. Incredible. I got upset when I saw this and pointed it out to him. He didn't really care about our position and the inconvenience we had in checking the status. So he grabbed the package, took a customs form from it and told us it would be something like $20 to claim. I blew up. I told him the tent only cost $20 and I wasn't about to pay that in duty. Some arguing back and forth got him to relent and accept a couple dollars. Finally we had our camping "home". We were ready for jungles, mountains or beaches.

We had been in the orphanage for a couple weeks when we were asked to leave for a few days so our room could be used for a potential adoptive couple to use. Miguel was happy to have us come stay with him for as long as we'd like. Miguel worked at a soap factory during the week. He was proud and grateful for his job and he even showed us his paycheck - $30 a week. He supported his family with that and still shared with us. Let me digress here for a bit. When we walked the streets in our casual clothes - I had just a pair of t-shirts (one of which the nuns gave me since I had no extra clothes) and my military khaki pants with the extra pockets that were so handy for carrying stuff. We'd see young Mexicans of our age dressed in black slacks with white dress shirts. Their hair slicked back. I used to wonder why they dressed so formally. I was a bit cynical from my dress-down-worn-out-Levi's point of reference. I just felt they were a bit pretentious. Now, back to Miguel and his home. I do have a point here, so stick with me. Miguel lived in a large barrio some might call an urban slum. Dirt streets, open dumps, etc. We'd be told not to go out after dark. I'll never forget the sight of an elderly woman sifting through a city block sized garbage pile looking for food, competing with mongrel dogs for anything edible. Miguel lived with his extended family in a complex of about eight rooms. He had one small room with his 3 children (he was divorced, raising the family) The grandparents had a couple rooms and other family members had the remaining rooms. The entrance to the courtyard was next to the small tienda (shop) where they sold pop and candy and a few other household items. In the center of the courtyard was the only running water, a single faucet. The bathroom was a small room with concrete seat, basically an indoor outhouse. Miguel let us use his bedroom and moved his family into another.

One morning we were in the courtyard when out from his room came one of the young men. He was dressed like the others I described - black slacks, crisp white shirt. He put his head under the faucet, washed his hair and slicked it back. Off he went into the street. I asked what he was up to. Miguel said he was going out to look for work. It can still bring me to tears to remember my arrogance and cynicism. Me, a suburban kid who never knew true poverty or desperation. I was humbled that day as I had never been before. Later we were in the kitchen with the grandmother. Her husband, dying of tuberculosis, was in the other room. She wanted to make us lunch. I insisted that was unnecessary and that we were happy to go out and buy our own lunch. She insisted. She opened the refrigerator, which was mostly empty. She took out some lamb, wrapped it in tortillas and dropped it into some hot oil to deep fry. She put it on our plates, added a bit of fresh sour cream and served us. I have never eaten anything that tasted better. What love adds to a dish. While we ate and conversed I asked her what she thought of us, two young men with enough money to travel for months. Just average Americans, but rich by comparison. What she said I'll never forget. She said, "Oh if we had your money we'd do the same. Besides, we have our family." Oh my God.

Miguel, who insisted we call him Mike, took us out for a ride on his bike. It was a three-wheeler with a sidecar that he used to deliver goods from the small store the family ran. Juan and I sat in the sidecar as he pedaled us around. Juan was pretty athletic and offered to do the pedaling and give Mike a break. So he hopped on the seat and started up. When he got going a bit I jumped into to the sidecar. This threw off the balance and the metal corner of the sidecar ran right into a beautiful '57 Chevy parked on the street! It put a 6-inch dent in the door. We stopped and the owner came over to assess the damage. There goes a bunch of money now, I thought. Mike told us to stand back and he'd deal with it. The two went back and forth in a Spanish of which I could only catch bits and pieces. When the negotiations ended we ended up paying 50 pesos - $4. That's four dollars, not $400 or even $40. Mike pedaled after that.

One night we were a bit late in getting back from our ramblings. We were on a bus returning to Mike's. We sat near the back door, pretty worn out from a long day, when we heard some scuffling behind us. The next thing we saw was two men struggling up the aisle. Then I saw one holding a large knife, blood on the blade. I was frozen, but thank God not everyone else was. A few men jumped in and wrestled the knife away from the crazed man. The bus had stopped and within seconds they'd thrown him out and delivered some instant street justice. I knew that Mexico and Colombia were number 1 and 2 in the world for murder rates at that time. I kept my eyes open after that, though I loved Mexico and still do to this day.

We spent a lot of time in Mexico City reading, In part, because both of us spent a lot of time sick. Sometimes we could blame it on some weird food we'd eaten. Other times it was probably the foul air and environmental conditions. There were days when you could hardly see more than a few blocks because the air pollution was so thick. We'd spend a fair amount of time working in the garden at the orphanage and joining in activities with the nuns and kids. Before we left we gave them a bit of money. They gave us some clothes. So now, rested, resupplied and anxious we left the city.

Our next stop was Puebla, a large city SE of Mexico City. We kicked around for an afternoon and climbed a hill and pitched our tent. By 9 p.m. it got so cold since we had no blankets that we packed up the tent and went back into town and found a cheap room. Puebla is about 7000 ft. in elevation so November than is plenty cold. Who needs this? we thought. So we bought a couple tickets on a 2nd class train to Veracruz. Historic Veracruz. I was pretty excited to get there. The train left town at 1:30 a.m. The bench was bare wood and the train rocked back and forth. Some guy a few seats away was sniffing glue and acting pretty bizarre. I still managed to sleep, but Juan spent an uneasy night awake.

Veracruz was hot. I had never seen the Gulf of Mexico. We were walking through the plaza when a couple Canadian women asked us for help. Some young Mexican men were hitting on them so we had to pretend to be with them. Not an unpleasant task. They spoke no Spanish and asked if we could help them get a hotel. The clerk at the hotel tried to cheat them and I was able to catch him at his game and give him a tongue lashing in his own language which caught him off guard. We did our Boy Scout duties and went down to the beach and pitched our tent. Now instead of shivering we were sweating. But at least we slept.

Because we had been delayed so long in Mexico City, we were ready to get out of the country. We took a two-day train ride through the jungles of Veracruz, Tabasco and Campeche. I rode between cars for a while with jungle leaves and branches brushing my outstretched hands. The train would stop in tiny villages where locals would come aboard selling tamales and drinks and fresh fruits. One incident still bothers me. A little barefoot girl was selling some homemade food. A Mexican man chose something and tried to pay her with a 20 peso bill. She didn't have enough change so he gave her back the food and kept his money. I just wish I had been quick enough to make change or help in some way. But she was gone and I'd missed a chance to a good thing. I'm still mad at myself.

We made it to Merida in the Yucatan. I'm not sure what I expected, but this wasn't it. Cloudy, windy and cool. The area we found ourselves in had a lot of nice homes, most of which were empty. We guessed that they were vacation homes. We camped in the back yard of an unoccupied house. After a rainy, windy night we went into town and got a room. The next day we tried to catch a bus but all seats were sold so we slept in the park. Then we headed to the border with Belize. Finally we were leaving the relative comfort and familiarity of Mexico.

English is the official language of Belize, it being the former British Honduras. So when we arrived at customs you would think it would be easy to talk to the guards. Not so. They spoke with such strong accents that I could barely understand them! The guards in their crisp uniforms were a real departure from more casual officials we were used to. The culture was unique, being a blend of British, Caribbean and Latin American influence. I was struck by the unusual selection of foods in the store. Canned goods imported from England and even canned orange juice! We camped on a beach in Belize City.

Here are some of Juan's notes from that time:

Tuesday  Dec. 4, 1973

            We got on the bus at 7 and arrived in Chetumal at 12:30 + at 2 we took a bus to the border, Santa Elena.  We entered B. Honduras without any problems and we got a ride to Corazal.  There was a bus that left at 4 but we didn’t have any money so they wouldn’t let us buy a ticket (.80 cents US).  Finally, we insisted they accept a travelers cheque.  We got on and 4 hrs. later we were in Belize – the road was so narrow and bumpy, often times our speed was reduced to about 5 mph and when a car came in the opposite direction we had to pull over and stop so the car could creep by us.  We got to Belize at 9:00 + ½ hr. later we found a spot to camp right by the beach.

 Wednesday  Dec. 5, 1973

             At 9 we found a bus ($1.00 US) that would take us near the border so at 10 we took off but after going no more than 5 miles our bus broke down so we waited over an hr. for another one to arrive.  At 2:30 we arrived at El Cayo and we took a taxi to the border for 65 cents US.  We became friends with two Britain's David Walker + Peter Jones and when we got to the border we met a Canadian – He told us quite a bit about S. America.  We talked for awhile in the St. but at 6 or so it started to rain so we looked for a hotel.  We found one for $1 apiece so we put all our stuff in this room and went out looking for a place to eat.  We found a very nice spot just a block from our hotel.  The very fine meal consisted of soup, rice, chicken, potatoes, tortillas, frijoles, water, and coffee – all for only 60 cents.  We talked about all sorts of things during and after our meal and had the lights not gone out we would have stayed much longer than the 1 ½  hr. we were there.  We got back and talked for a couple more hours and at 11:30 we finally went to bed.

Juan's notes remind me of how slow and difficult travel was on these backroads. By the time we made it to the Guatemalan border I was exhausted. Guatemala still disputes the border with Belize, and even refuses to recognize it on Guatemalan maps! So the border guards here were heavily armed with submachine guns and cautious attitudes. A small river at the border was filled with native women washing clothes on its rocks. For the few days we had been in Belize I really missed the Latin culture. Most of the time I had to ask the English speakers in Belize if we could speak in Spanish which had become easier for me to understand. And I'll never forget that first meal in Guatemala. I have never liked spicy food, so in Mexico my constant request was "sin picante" or "sin chiles, por favor" i.e. without hot spice or chiles. Now we were enjoying soup and corn tortillas. I immediately had hopes of better health.

Our main reason for coming through the Yucatan was to see Mayan ruins. We skipped side trips in Mexico in favor of taking more time to visit Tikal, the Mayan capital. A slow bus ride from the border took us to El Cruce where the road leads to the ruins. We started hitchhiking from there. We hooked up with another group of travelers, a Spaniard and his French-Canadian friend, and two women, one from France and the other from Guatemala. The Spaniard was very suave and handsome. He played a flute and referred to us as "maestro", an affectionate slang term. The two beautiful women seemed enamored of him. The Spaniard was light-skinned and tall. We all were visiting with some locals, one of whom praised him for his excellent Spanish, mistaking him for another gringo American. He made sure to point out he was a proud Spaniard and Castellano was his native tongue.

Along the way, the sky turned ominous and dark. We were lucky enough to find shelter in an empty, one room building. The rain poured and a rainbow ended a few feet in front of us. We had a meal with some locals and slept on the floor. In the morning we caught a ride to the ruins. Most tourists seem to show up in the afternoon, so we were able to have much of park to ourselves. There are plenty of other better descriptions of Tikal, so I'll simply say it's like another world. Climbing the steps of the Temple of the Sun I recalled the stories of the countless human sacrifices that took place there. From the top of another pyramid all I could see in 360 degrees was jungle and Lake Peten in the distance. Here are the few pictures Juan took, the road and looking out from our shelter and the two of us up on the pyramid:

That night we slept in hammocks with the sounds of howler monkeys and other jungle animals. Unforgettable. We spent the next morning exploring the ruins and then hitchhiked out that afternoon.

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