Mexicanyon

Cañon del Sumidero, in the Mexican state of Chiapas, makes for a lovely day trip. Seen either from above via scenic lookout points, or below on the river snaking along the canyon floor, the canyon is roughly a kilometer deep in places.

Rock walls tower overhead, striped with striations telltale of age, cacti springing forth from any small foothold. Green waters lazily slip through the canyon’s gaping throat making its way downriver, passing from brutal sun to chilling shade. Hawks circle overhead; vultures hobble on rocky shores; ducks float and dive; herons stand tall and erect.

The canyon is reminiscent of the American Southwest, a calling card from home, bringing forth a vague nostalgia. Only nowhere in Colorado or New Mexico do crocodiles lounge on the riverbanks. Nor do monkeys swing in our trees, luxuriously out of reach. 

Island for Sale

Just outside of Granada, on the northwest side of Lago Cocibolca, lie hundreds of fun-sized islands. Las Isletas, over 350 of them, are the result of a massive explosion over 10,000 years ago, which gave nearby Volcán Mombocho its rather haggard silhouette.

Touring the isletas the cheap and dirty way, we paid less than half the price of what the tour companies were asking. What we got was a ride in a motorboat from a teenage kid who just pointed out the obvious. And it was a lovely way to pass an hour.

Massive tropical trees sprouted from the diminutive islands, dipping their branches out over the lake. Birds dipped and dived, skimming the surface of the water. Awkward, gangly herons stalked about, trying to look elegant in white. Water lilies stretched their open faces toward the midday sun. Monkeys vaulted through tree branches.

Once one of Nicaragua’s poorest neighborhoods, the millionaires have started to move in, mansions popping up here and there to supplant the patched together houses with weatherworn paint. Hammocks and laundry hung about in the sun, as a number of the islands are inhabited.

And everywhere, islands presented themselves as a real estate option, just waiting for their new resident to boat by and fall in love. Maybe one of these days (years) we’ll have the disposable income to just choose an island, throw up a hammock and some Swiss Family Robinson–style dwelling, and spend our days, drink in hand, on our own private island. One of these days. 

Markets of Thailand: Floating Market

Thailand’s most popular floating market, Damneon Saduak, is in Ratchaburi province, roughly an hour plus from where we lived last semester. A floating market, is exactly the same as many street markets in terms of goods and wares for sale, just instead of walking you are in a boat, so there is the added danger of capsizing. This token difference turns Damneon Saduak into a giant tourist magnet. 

Due to the throngs of tourists, Damneon Saduak can be incredibly expensive. As is the case with many tourist areas in Thailand (and, honestly, everywhere in the world), the locals view it as a lucrative opportunity for overcharging foreigners. From the bus ride to renting a boat and someone to control the boat to buying anything vendors are selling, everything is a chance to rip off a tourist, tacking on anywhere from 20 to 400 baht more than the price should be. We were lucky enough to be traveling with P’Gee (our Thai mother), so we had to deal with less of the hassle. One of her former students was even a police officer at the market, so our boat ride (normally the most expensive part) was on the house.

Two types of boats cruise the river: longtail boats with their lawnmower engines extended dangerously far into the water and clouds of putrid black smoke; and slow boats, equally long, but motorless (so without the speed, but also the noise, sounds, and danger) and relying instead on a Thai to paddle down the river. The whole river is such a traffic jam that speed matters very little anyhow, so we opted for a quiet, leisurely ride in one of the slow boats.  

Amid the chaos, shop owners wield a long stick outfitted with a hook to catch their prey. Show any interest and your boat will be singled out. The shopkeeper uses the hook to pull the boat over to the riverside stand and hold it captive while he or she tries to sell things for hiked up prices. 

 

By mid-morning, as the sun starts to hover overhead, the floating market heats up considerably. As sun protection, many of the boats keep a full stock of big floppy hats. And as you float up and down the river, there is no shortage of cold beer, water or chilled fruit. Boats bump and knock together, jolting tourists and vendors alike, as everyone jostles to inch forward. 

While there were a couple of shady, quiet stretches of water away from the crowd, our overall impression wasn't entirely positive. Hectic, frenzied and expensive, not to mention inconveniently located, Damneon Saduak isn’t somewhere I would choose to go again. But, thanks to the presence of an experienced Thai who kept the swindlers at bay, it wasn’t the worst day trip.

A Chill in the Air

Northern Vietnam was cold. Arriving at night, people were bundled up in winter clothing, coats buttoned up to the throat, hats pulled down snug over ears. By our standards it was an overreaction, but all over Hanoi, on motorbikes and on sidewalks, seated on tiny plastic chairs, clothing was layered to fend off the chill. The sky was grey, ominous, the sun rare. It wasn’t bitter winter cold, more like fall crisp, but the change was dramatic. Even we put on jeans and long sleeves.

Whether it was the weather, or simply a regional disposition, the chill seemed to be in the personalities as well. The people were aggressive. Smiles seemed rare. A foggy trip to Halong Bay ended in a yelling match – tourists vs. tour guide, 18 to 1 – after he kept us waiting on a street corner for over an hour and then tried to leave some people behind. We hadn’t seen the sun in days; dealing with people was tiresome. We decided to cut our losses, make one more stop, and head the 800 km down the coast to central Vietnam.

Before leaving we stopped in Ninh Binh, more commonly known as ‘the Halong Bay of the rice fields’. It was yet another rainy day, preventing us from renting bikes (read: saving money) and biking around in comfort. But by the time we arrived at the tourist dock, the temperature was rising, leaving only a thick fog around in its wake. 

As we left the dock, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape, interrupted only by the steady sound of the oars. Immense limestone cliffs towered above us, layered over one another like construction paper cutouts. On either side of the waterway, villagers tended to their rice paddies, boats tied up nearby. We drifted leisurely down the river, through natural tunnels in the cliffs, past vendors and homes. 

It was a tiny, but much-needed, spoonful of tranquility in our stressed-out North Vietnam soup.