Chiapas 2022

Day 1. California to Tuxtla to San Cristobal de las Casas

I have Spring Break at the university, so taking a couple of days from the previous week I have managed to put together a 10-day tour of Chiapas and Guatemala, following on the footsteps of my Lil’ Sis. Unfortunately I didn’t sleep so well the night before (a case of mild indigestion by a delicious, spicy Vietnamese sausage), so by the time I got in my seat at Sacramento, at 12:15 am, I was ready to sleep, and snore, and snore some more. I finally landed in Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of the state of Chiapas, and promptly rented a car to start climbing the mountains atop of which San Cristobal is perched. It reminded me a lot on the climb to Orgosolo, in Sardinia.

I took the toll road, and was probably 15 km from San Cris, when the traffic came to a stop and cars started going back. A gentleman in the car adjacent to mine stated categorically: “Another of those roadblocks!” “Is it a police roadblock?”, I asked. “No, it is the people, looking for money or for some other cause. We seem to have one every week. The only thing to do is to turn back and take the old road.”, which he proceeded to do without delay. I was curious, so I drove past the stopped cargo vehicles until I reached the roadblock. There were maybe 50 farmers there, who had rolled rocks unto the pavement, and was just standing there. A half a kilometer up the road there was another roadblock, but with a lot more people. So I said hello to my side of the crowd, and they were all too happy to tell me that they were obstructing the road to pressure the Town Mayor to solve a dispute they had with another farmers group about the wastewater effluent of San Cris. My farmers have been farming for the last 50 or 60 years, using wastewater for irrigating their fruit trees, immediately after the water exited the tunnel that conveyed it from the city. The problem was that this other group of farmers, hereafter referred to as the bad guys, cut a channel to divert the water prior to it entering the tunnel into a sinkhole, where the wastewater was doing no one any good. The bad guys wanted the good guys to give them 1,000,000 pesos if they wanted the water back. Besides it being an absurdly large amount, the good guys were incensed at the attempt at extortion, and knew that if they paid the same thing would happen next year. So they wanted the Mayor or the Governor to intervene, and this was their way to pressure the politicos. They had announced through social networks their intent to blockade the highway at high noon, and at the very same time a delegation was starting a meeting with the Mayor. It was then 2 pm, and they were determined to keep up the blockade for days if need be. I have to say that I sympathized with their concern (plus they were very charming a polite to me, even if from time to time they would break into amused conversation in Tzotzil), and I enjoyed spending an hour with them, learning about the sources of water in the area, and about the lore of the mountains.

Ultimately, however, I figured that I had to turn around and take “la libre” around the mountain and into San Cris. So with many honks and waving hands I headed back to undo maybe 40 km I had already covered. And then I saw a minibus, of the type used as a taxi between San Cris and Tuxtla coming out of a dirt track. I rolled down my window and asked if that track went to San Cris and I was assured that it did, but there were many intersections where I could get lost. Hey “No Goats, No Glory” as DJ would say, so I turned my car into the mountain and started quite the wild ride. There were a lot of intersections, but I was lucky that for the most part I met someone who would point me in the right direction. Until one of them didn’t, and I ended in someone’s back yard. The very short man that greeted me gave me his instructions on how to get back to the good track, and then asked if I wanted to give him a ride to San Cris. “Of course, amigo!)” I said with relief, and from then on I had my own guide to the mountain paradise. It was quite the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride but the views were fantastic and it felt like a real adventure.

Once we got into town I stopped at an Oxxo (the Mexican version of a 7-Eleven), bought my friend a soda and bought a SIM card for my phone. Like magic, I now had cell phone access to Google Maps, and after tipping and saying goodbye to my new amigo, I had no problem navigating to my modest but very comfortable hotel.

By then I was getting hungry, and was delighted to find that next door to the hotel is a Cocina Economica, where a most magnificent cook presides. I dined like a king on Asado de Puerco en Adobo, Acelgas Rellenas en Salsa de Tomatillo, rice and black beans. Delicious and almost worth a second night of indigestion.

I spent the afternoon walking through the streets of the very quaint downtown, getting money out of the ATM, buying a few essentials, and booking a trip tomorrow to the Lagunas de Montebello. I am in Heaven 😊

Day 2. Cascadas de El Chiflón y Lagunas de Montebello

Yesterday I forgot to mention that while I was shooting the breeze with the good farmers I looked at the blocks they had used to close the road. They were all limestones. So I explained to them that I was a geologist, that I studied rocks, and then asked them if there were any fossils in the area. They looked at me like I was an alien talking about things that they couldn’t grasp. They listened very politely, but it was clear they had nothing to say so I just dropped it. I think I have created an aura of mystique.

So most of the rocks here in Chiapas are limestones, which means they have all sorts of karst topography, including caves, sinkholes, and that eerie topography that we normally attribute to the Pearl River in China or Danang Bay in Vietnam. Weathering of the limestones also leads to the development of thick, clayey red soils. I wonder of any of them would qualify as a laterite?

From San Cris we travelled east, toward the Mexico-Guatemala border, through high pines and dry scrub bush, to the luscious Llanos de San Bartolo-Pijajic, which are a lower elevation and are a very productive sugar cane region, and finally into the jungle, where we stopped to hike up the series of waterfalls known as El Chiflón. Because of the high load of bicarbonate ions the water has a very peculiar turquoise color, which makes for an amazing water landscape.

Our next stop was in the Lagunas de Montebello, a group of 48.5 water table lakes, some of which occupy sinkholes (the remaining 0.5 lake belongs to Guatemala). Because they are water table lakes, when drought sets the stage of all lakes drops in unison, and viceversa during the rainy season. The first lake we stopped at was called Pajoj, and we had lunch there (a delicious dish with melted cheese, zucchini flowers, chorizo, mushrooms and beans).

In Pajoj we took a raft to a small  island in the middle of the lake, to admire the fine collection of orchids that the farmers had collected there for the enjoyment of the tourists. But then it started raining, so we hurried to our raft and started to row with energy. It reminded me of a famous wood carving about the gods of the Mayan underworld rowing the condemned souls to the Mayan hell.

We stopped at a couple other lakes, which were very beautiful indeed, but in visiting them the day wore away and pretty soon it was time for the 3-hour ride home. I took the unwise decision to fortify myself with a handful of roasted organic corn nuts powdered with organic chili powder, which fell like a bomb on my tender intestinal system, so from there on my belly was gurgling and bubbling. Pretty soon my tummy was hurting and threatened to explode. I managed to keep it in check until we got to San Cris, but then I felt I was going to lose it, so I asked the driver to stop and let me out in a hurry, just in time for me to puke my guts out unto the drainage ditch. Oh boy, I was feeling really sick and had a rough night with little sleep.

Day 3. San Cristobal to Yaxchilán

Nothing like having the galloping runs prior to starting a long car ride to my next destination. Our driver yesterday, Hugo, had recommended avoiding the route San Cris-Palenque-Yachilan, because the first leg of that route was very slow on account of hundreds of speed bumps (more like small walls really) that have been built by various religious sects. What? This is a very poor area of Mexico, and the farmers are rather prone to follow anyone who brings along a handful of dollars to distribute, which is exactly what the American Pentecostals, Seventh Day Adventists, Jehova’s Witnesses, Mormons, and a dozen others have done. The first order of business when they arrive to an area is to build a temple by the side of the road, around which grows a community of followers (very often a squatters in public lands), who of course need a speed bump to protect their children from crazy drivers (the bump is also used to collect funds from motorists in another sort of blockade).

So I had decided to go the route of San Cris-Comitán-Yaxchilán, which is twice as long but equally fast, because the roads are so much better. It is also a very scenic route that gives you a beautiful glimpse over the Selva Lacandona. I would have enjoyed it so much more were it nor for the fact that a poor night sleep is not a good preparation for an 8-hour car ride, which turned into 9 hours because every 100 km I had to stop by the side of the road and take a 15-minute nap.

I arrived in Yaxchilán at 3:30 pm, checked into the Escudo Jaguar eco-lodge (the name is a bit dark, but that is because Escudo Negro was the meme of the ruler of ancient Yaxchilán), and was glad to go for a walk along the Usumacinta River, which here forms the boundary between Mexico and Guatemala. I was surprised to see the river flowing the wrong way! To the north instead of to the south! Alas, it has been a good 60 years since I studied the geography of Mexico, and at the time failed to register the fact that the Usumacinta drains into the Gulf of Mexico and not the Pacific.

There I was, musing about the foibles of rivers, when a young man approached me, asking if I spoke English. He was a mochilero in his late 20’s, and upon me answering in the affirmative poured on me his tale of grief: He had just crossed from Guatemala and on requesting his entry permit had found that he had to pay 638 pesos (about US $30) for a visitor’s permit, and he had no credit card. No credit card?! What mossy rock had he been living under?  Alas, Millennials don’t carry credit cards and instead rely on their cell phones to pay everything. “Well”, I said, “Let’s go talk to the Migratory agent to see what can be done about it.” So we did, and I learned that (1) a new fee had been introduced on January 1, leveeing a permit fee for visits in excess of seven days (and up to 180 days), (2) that the fee had to be pay by credit card to avoid corruption (the permit is issued by computer, and for every permit issued there has to be a corresponding credit charge), and (3) that my buddy had entered Mexico in 2020 and had never checked out, so as far as the migratory authorities were concerned he had already been for two years in Mexico (How many of us have not surrendered our entry permit upon leaving a country?! Now I know that computers have long memories), and that now he had to first pay a fine of US $30 to exit Mexico before he could pay another US $30 to enter again! It was all a bit of a comedy, except for the kid, so I paid both charges using my credit card, which he promptly reimbursed me via PayPal, and the little comedy act came to an end. I was probably the only English-speaker in the whole small Mayan town, so there is no doubt that divine Providence came to the rescue of this poor kid.

Breakfast-lunch-and dinner were rolled into one in the form of a bowl of vegetable soup, and I hit the bed early in hopes that moderation today will result in wellbeing tomorrow.

Day 4. Yaxchilán

I was haunted by the spirits of the Mayans, and clearly heard the roaring of Escudo Jaguar as he roamed around my cabin, waiting to drag me away to the cesspool where all those who die of gastrointestinal disease are to rot for eternity. So I woke with a start, only to find out that the noisy jaguar was a crazy howling monkey who had taken residence in a nearby tree. I was also pleasantly surprised to find out that moderation had indeed worked, and that my belly was now at peace with the world.

I had a hearty breakfast and, as usual, was the first tourist at the dock seeking a boat ride to the archaeologic site of Yaxchilán, which can only be reached by boat. I paid way too much for the privilege (in retrospect I should have waited for a couple of hours for the “normal” tourists to arrive, so I could share the cost of the ride with others), but in recompense I had the site all for myself for the first couple of hours. Yaxchilán is located on the shores of the Usumacinta, in a peninsula formed by an almost strangled meander of the river that encircles a small mountain maybe 500 m high. The city is arranged in three levels, with the lowermost being the Main Complex, and two other higher levels referred to as the West and South Acropolises. I took the first detour to the West Acropolis, which in my humble opinion is small but most impressive. It consists of three buildings which in Classical Maya style were set on top of pyramidal mounds and were topped by an ornate crest. Very narrow rooms, however, so I wonder where the rulers of the town kept their king-size beds.

Yaxchilán was first occupied in 600 AD, flourished under the rule of Escudo Jaguar from 700 to 760 AD (yes, he lived a long life as ruler), underwent an interregnum from 760 to 770 AD under the Mother Queen, and finally was governed by Pájaro Jaguar from 770 to 800 AD. Like many of the Classic Mayan sites it was abandoned around 850 AD. As an interesting political ploy, there is a beautiful stella showing Escudo Jaguar passing the kingdom to Pájaro Jaguar, no doubt a ploy by the Mother Queen to legitimize the ascension of her son to the throne.

The Southern Acropolis is another palace complex, where the crests of the buildings have been carefully reconstructed (probably as a fancy of the archaeologists), and from it one can see fabulous “aerial” views of the Main Complex, a good 50 meters below. You can see that the elite liked to keep an eye on the coming and goings of merchants, athletes, and general populace in the plazas below.

The Main Complex is surrounded by temples, markets, and other public use structures, including ball game courts. The Mesoamerican ball game is the stuff of legends, and I am not sure anyone knows the details on how it was played, but clearly it was like futból in modern Latin America, where every kind, youngster, and adult play it in simple to highly formalized ways, and where the great players were idolized as minor gods. Because of the steep and long staircase joining the Main Complex with the Southern Acropolis, the local guides like to thrill the visitors with the vision of the heads of the loosing team being chopped off way on top and allowed to bounce down the 500 steps unto the feet of the entranced fans below (I can think of a couple of Giants fans who would like to see the same ceremony enacted with the visiting team in the AT&T stadium!).

My walk on the steps of the ancient inhabitants of Yaxchilán was accompanied by the constant howls and grunts of the howling male monkeys, who I understand keep the racket going to attract females and scare away competitors for their harems. Although the comparison with some strutting young men of my acquaintance seems unavoidable, I suspect that said howlers spend more time and energy howling than procreating. Sometimes natural selection takes some unexpected twists.

I should say something about the wonderful river ride. The boats are very long, and well suited to carry at least a dozen tourists, or sacs of corn or cement, or even a cow, and the boatmen know every twist and turn so they go full-throttle through bends that would have me slowing down to a crawl. There are no rapids in the stretch from the ecolodge to Yaxchilán, but if I were willing to pay for it, José Luís, my captain, was ready to run the rapids down to the Guatemalan site of Piedras Negras! I was not ready for that kind of money, so instead enjoyed the sight of a crocodile and some majestic trees (but precious few birds).

Back in my ecolodge I took it easy, which is never easy for me, and read the best part of the Arthur C. Clark novel Rendezvous with Rama while soaking in the pool. There was a convenient shade, which is always good to protect my sensitive skin, and although the novel starts slowly it becomes engrossing and extremely thought-provoking if you are into Sci-Fi.

Day 5. Bonampak

One of my fondest memories of growing up in Mexico City are the many trips that I made, solo, to the National Museum of Anthropology (one of the grand museums of the world, and worth spending at least a couple of days in Mexico City before heading for Teotihuacan or the Mayan world), and of those visits one of my favorite parts was to visit the life-size reconstruction of the palace of Bonampak, unique among Mayan archaeology for the delicious preservation of the colorful murals that adorned its walls. Unfortunately Bonampak was in the heart of the Selva Lacandona, in the deep heart of the Mayan jungle, and was accessible only by light plane and a full day march into the jungle. Much to my regret, I never visited it in my adventurous youth.

50 years later a paved road has been constructed between Comitán and Palenque that wisely passes close to both Bonampak and Yachilán. One of the goals of my current trip, therefore, was to make the pilgrimage to this shrine of Mayan archaeology. I started around 9 am with an easy 40 km drive through the glorious jungle, enjoying the unusually fresh morning air and the play of the sun through the leaves of an infinite shades of green. Now and then a majestic mahogany tree (aka as caoba in Spanish) rose straight up to the high canopy, maybe a meter across, and clearly taking the role of King of the Jungle. My friend Walt has reminded me that San Cris and the Sierra Lacandona were setting where B Traven placed many of his fascinating tales about the native peoples of Mexico, and in particular a series of stories about the exploitation of the Lacandones in the illegal harvesting of the mahogany trees. B Traven was a Polish German who immigrated to the United States and then to Mexico, where among others he wrote the most fascinating stories about the indigenous inhabitants of his adoptive land. I strongly recommend his books.

The visitor must brace for the payment of several small fees to enter the protected ecological zone, and the archaeologic site itself, but the one that slightly miffed me was the overpriced taxi you have to take to carry you 10 km from the small town of Lacanjá to the site. Unfortunately unlike the entrance fees, you are pretty much in the hands of the taxi driver on what he will charge. The only saving grace I found was that, once converted to dollars, the taxi fee does not seem that outrageous. And tourists must contribute to the local economy so I am now over it.

I will have to say something more about Lacanjá, but let me wait until I get back from Bonampak. The site is small, with a Main Plaza and the one Acropolis rising over a small hill along the long side of the plaza. It is a pleasant complex, and there are several stellae that are in much better state of preservation than those in Yaxchilán. I have taken several photographs, and another of my retirement projects will be to try ink line drawings of them. After a goodly amount of circling along the Main Plaza I finally started climbing the steep steps of the Acropolis toward the temple that I had visited in my imagination so many times in years past. I entered wit reverence and found a polychromatic explosion that at first it was difficult to process. The first feeling was of awe at the knowledge that these murals had been painted 1,250 years ago, and that by some miracle had managed to survive the weather of the jungle until they were first discovered in the 1950’s. Slowly the shapes took place, and I could se that the power of the murals were the groupings of people in them: Priests, male slaves, society ladies, soldiers in battle, conquered enemies, and rulers twice as large as anyone else, formed an apparently chaotic assembly of Mayan people, out to tell the story of the final hegemony of Bonampak over the surrounding lands (apparently in close alliance with the Lord of Yaxchilán).

Of course I had to take pictures, and much to my amazement found out that the digital images were even better than my eyes to identify nuances in the colors, and to enhance the different groups. Of course the temples are Classic Maya, extremely narrow, tall, and with a steep pyramidal point to them, so taking photos is not at all easy. I need to get some professional photographic book, for my library!

Another beautiful piece of art are the dintels of the doors. You know, the dintel where you tall friends bump their heads when entering a low room. In Maya architecture they were another surface suitable for carving, and generally are not as weathered because rain cannot reach them.

After a thoroughly enjoyable visit I was driven by the taxi back to my car (for once he didn’t get a tip because I am sure he overcharged me), and then had to go into Lacanjá to fuel up and to pay a visit to the ecolodge I never stayed at. The “gas station” was someone’s drive, where a very serious young man sold me 20 liters of gas at 23 pesos per liter (the going rate at the gas station would be 21 pesos per liter, so I thought this was a very reasonable markup), which he dispensed from very clean plastic containers without spilling a drop (he got a tip!).

Before I started the trip I had booked my three-night stay via Booking.com at an ecolodge in the Selva Lacandona, close to Yaxchilán, with the idea of contributing to the local economy and at the same time enjoying a unique ecologic and cultural experience. But when I was leaving San Cris to find my way in via the Booking.com app I found out that the place was in Ocosoingo, in the heart of the mountains and a million miles away from Yaxchilán (maybe 100 km as the crow flies, but in these steep mountain ranges it might as well be in the end of the world). Much taken aback I cancelled the reservation, angry with the duplicity of Mexican ecolodges. Imagine then my surprise that the ecolodge I had booked was in Lacanjá, barely 10 km from Bonampak, and that Booking.com had screwed up with the location (or maybe it was Google Maps). I felt obliged to go to the ecolodge and apologize; the administrator was very polite and listened attentively, but it was clear he had no idea of what I was referring to, so I left it at that and will reserve my frustration for nastygrams to Booking.com and Google Maps!

Day 6. Palenque

An easy, nearly bumpless ride of a couple of hours brought me to the little town of Palenque, where I had a delicious breakfast of assorted tacos. I was just savoring my good meal when I spotted, across the street, a posada with an open, welcoming car port, and 5 minutes later I had secured my lodging for the night. I was now ready to go explore the archaeologic zone of Palenque.

50 years ago my Dad and Mom had brought us in this fabulous, epic trip to southern Mexico, and one of the stops had been Palenque. I remember it distinctively because when we got there we found a dense cover of fog, so you could barely see a few feet ahead as you cut through the dew soaked vapors that enveloped us. The different pyramids and temples appeared out of nowhere, as ghosts from a time gone by. Finally the sun warmed the clouds and we, standing in the middle of the Main Plaza, saw the whole complex emerge from the clouds, as if it were materializing out of the swirling tendrils of vapor. It was one of the most magical views I had ever beheld. I was 18, Armando 20, and Norma 8, and we had a great time climbing to the top of the pyramids, to stare in awe at the fabulous bass reliefs of a cruciform corn plant, or the lapidary stone of the great ruler Pakal, who ruled Palenque from 615 to 683 AD, and thus preceded Escudo Jaguar in Yaxchilán.

Unique about Mexican pyramids, who were nothing else that mounds of rubble to elevate the temples, the main pyramid of Palenque was a royal tomb, and within it was the stone sarcophagus of Pakal, his fabulous burial goods, and a cover stone that is enormous in size and represents him … well, there has been much speculation about what it is we are seeing here. The traditional version is that it is Pakal going back to Mother Earth, lying recumbent on his back, and from his chest rises a sacred ceiba tree to signify the cycle of renewal and rebirth that characterizes nature. Another version, inspired on the Sci-Fi craze of the 1960’s, believes that what we are seeing is Pakal on board of his spaceship, adjusting the controls and blasting into outer space!

Faby asked me if she had ever been in Palenque, and I am going to say that yes, we went there maybe 20 years ago, and again went over every nook and cranny to admire the many pyramids and temples, and to visit the Palace, with its also unique observation tower, which rises like a type of pagoda two or three stories above the surrounding structures.

So fast forward to 2022, and the site has been prepared for large numbers of visitors, with interpretive paths, wide parking lots, a museum that happened to be close for the day when I was there, and a suitably large number of vendors of food and souvenirs. But the major improvement of all was that you can no longer climb the pyramids. This might be a bummer for kids and younger adults, but from my standpoint makes for a more majestic view of the site and its innumerable vantage points. I have always been good at minimizing the number of tourists in my photos, and this time round it was so much easy because I didn’t have to wait for five or ten minutes to wait for the “parasites” to move away from my viewfinder. OK, so I am a grouchy curmudgeon but I still think this is a most beautiful example of Classic Maya architecture, and I was glad to enjoy it in all its glory.

On the way back from the site I took a delightful trail through the jungle, past many minor pyramid complexes and babbling creeks. The jungle was very pleasant, and I got lost in the immensity of the variety of trees and shrubs. I wish I had the time to learn about these majestic trees. Unfortunately the path brought me down to the paved road a good 1.5 km from where I had left my car, but embracing local customs I flagged down a colectivo and for US $0.50 saved myself a long slug uphill.

In the afternoon I went for a walk through the town of Palenque, and very much enjoyed looking into the little craft shops. At one of them I bought myself a very cool Panama hat painted cerulean blue and decorated with beautiful flowers (I am into hats, and thus one will be one of the pride pieces in my collection!). I also overate once again, but how is one to avoid indulgence in the most delicious country on Earth?

Day 7. The Long Way to Chiapa de Corzo.

It finally came the time to take the long drive back to Chiapa de Corzo, where I was planning on spending the night before taking the flight to Guatemala. I had been discouraged to go back via San Cristobal because of the menace of many speedbumps, so instead took the long detour from Palenque to Villahermosa, and from there to Chiapa. I stopped early on the trip to have a bowl of lamb stew (consomé de barbacoa de borrego), and then I plunged into Villahermosa (a double lie because it is not a villa but a full size city, and it is definitely not hermosa). But it is the city of el Peje, which is the name Mexicans give to the current president, and so it is seeing much construction and modernization.

Speaking of the current president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador or AMLO, he is a populist who is well loved by the lower class and despised by the middle and upper class. His latest initiative is that the six-year term of the President should have a referendum halfway through, at 3 years in office; this referendum will take place in mid-April, and he is confident it will be in his favor, after which he will be unstoppable in his plan to “transform” Mexico. Not clear what would happen if he were to lose the referendum, but I think the idea of a halfway checkpoint is not such a bad one for Mexican politics.

After the double-lie city, I had the option of continuing in the toll road, or talking the free road. I have learnt from Ronnie to be a necio and do things the hard way, so I took the free road and headed for the mountains. And what mountains they are! I would offer to show you a photo, but the road was so winding and narrow that I rarely found a place to stop, and when I did I was surrounded by think jungle without a hope for reaching a vista point. I climbed and climbed from jungle to pine tree forest, back down into jungle, and back up into pine trees. I must have made 500 sharp turns to the right and a corresponding 500 sharp turns to the left, and finally, after spending 5 hours to run 200 km I made it into Chiapa de Corzo. I had one more thing I wanted to see: El Caňón del Sumidero.

This is the gorge of the Grijalva River, which was inundated by the tail water of the Chicoasén Dam in 1994, changing it from an almost impassable white-water rafting trek into a flat water trip that is now one of the most important tourist attractions of the area. Of course, having upon me the curse of The Lonely Tourist, I had to wait until a large enough group assembled, which by 3:30 pm seemed increasingly unlikely. I was rescued by a big trip of French tourists, the guide of which graciously allowed me to take a seat in their boat, and so we sped into the canyon, and pretty soon we were being crushed among limestone cliffs that were 500 m high, then 750 m high, and at last 1,000 m high! The walls were covered by epiphytes and strange-looking Dr. Seuss trees, as well as with representatives of the “bosque de caducifolias”, a bizarre ecosystem in which the trees, to avoid dehydration during the hot times of the year completely drop their leaves and to you and me look completely dead. But they are not, for as soon as the rains start the leaves pop back up and the trees come back to life, like a Phoenix.

 

January 2022 - Turkey

Turkey 2022

OMG. We are now in 2022! Fortunately what happens on the night between the 4^th and the 5^th of January is not a harbinger of what the year is going to be like. It was a very long night. First, I had to wait for 8 hours in Ankara to take the flight to Istanbul SAW (on the Asian half of Istanbul), then I had to take the midnight shuttle to Istanbul IST (on the European side of Istanbul), and wait there another 7 hours for the flight to Nevsehir in Cappadocia. In Nevsehir I took the shuttle to Göreme, 25 km away, and finally got to my hotel around 10:30 am. I figured I traveled a good 27 hours to get here.

Before I tell you about Göreme, let me go back to my transfer from Istanbul SAW to Istanbul IST. The outskirts of Istanbul have certainly changed a lot in the 15 years since I was last there, and the city looks lively and modern (instead of Byzantine), with brightly illuminated freeways everywhere. But the real shock came when we got to Istanbul IST, which is a palace of steel, glass, and enough lights to turn the night into day. I remember the airport, Ataturk International IST, as a rather cramped and understated facility, and was sure impressed by the transformation. Just before my flight to San Francisco SFO I am supposed to stay in a small hotel just across the street, but I cannot even see the street!

So I checked in and got ready for a six hour wait for my flight to Nevsehir, when out of boredom I decided to check Google Maps to see what route I will have to follow to get to my hotel across the street. Google Maps came back with 45 km and 13 hours walk on foot! What? Surely there is something wrong in here. The GPS marker puts me at the shore of the Black Sea, but I know that Ataturk International is near the Sea of Marmara. What is going on? When in doubt ask Google, which in very succinct language told me that at the start of the pandemic the Turkish authorities took the IST designation away from Ataturk International (now ISL), and assigned it to the brand new airport they had built 50 km away. That is as if someone were to take the SFO designation and give it to Santa Rosa! Imagine you had booked yourself in a hotel in San Bruno, just to find out that you were going to have to take a cab from Santa Rosa (and viceversa) to fly into (or out of) SFO. Grr! I had booked accommodations near the airport just so I would not have to depend on expensive taxis and traffic to catch my early flight back home ☹

Anyway, I took the 2-hour flight to Nevsehir, and was shocked to see we had landed in the middle of nowhere! There was desert all around us, and nothing but a handful of houses to be seen. Ay, ay, ay, I sure hope I have not made a blunder coming here.

I had made a reservation for the shuttle to Göreme, but was disappointed to see that no one was holding a sign with my name on it. Now what? Well, when I doubt ask. The gentleman I asked listened politely, heard the word “Göreme” and pointed toward a man who was hurrying in from the parking lot. Yes! He had the sign with my name 😊 Ten minutes later we were heading out,  and after half hour of ride entered into the magical landscape of Cappadocia, which I will attempt to describe in a later paragraph. The shuttle dropped me off in front of the Küfe Hotel, smack in the middle of Göreme, where a smiling lady welcomed me and showed me to my room. Home at last!

I was too pumped up to take a nap at 10 am, so instead I dropped off my backpack and went out to investigate the town and its surroundings. The region in general, and the town in particular, are world famous for the fantastic forms that weathering and erosion have carved through a sequence of lacustrine deposits and poorly indurated, unwelded ignimbrites. Geologists refer to these erosional forms a hoodoos, though popular imagination describes them as fairy mushrooms, pirulíes, stout garden gnomes, or even phallic symbols. Turn an ice cream cone upside down and you will get an idea of what hoodoos look like. There are dozens of them all around us, and they are big! Since the Bronze Age folks here found out that the soft ignimbrites could be dug into to create caves, which in no time evolved into dwellings worthy of a hobitt. The cool thing here, then, is for your hotel to extend a few meters into one of these hoodoos and announce itself as a cave hotel or a troglodyte dwelling.

I was of course interested in the geology, and in taking beautiful pictures, so I followed my nose and pretty soon was trudging on goat paths looking for vantage points. I am sad to say that folks who lay power lines are not always aware of the visual pollution that they impose on us amateur photographers. By the time I decided to head back I was pretty far into the country, so when I got to Göreme I was sporting a pretty hefty appetite. Thank you to the Arab world for inventing shawarma 😊 Then the previous sleepless night hit me, and when I got to my overheated room at 3 pm an impossible drowsiness hit me, and I conked out until midnight. By then it was too late to do anything, so after working on this blog for a half hour, and seeing a short movie, I went back to land of Nod.

I woke up with a start! It was 6:15 am, and I was supposed to get picked up between 6 and 7 am to go on a hot air balloon ride. I skipped my normal ablutions, dressed like lightening, brewed a quick cup of coffee, and by 6:45 am stood in the lobby ready to embark in a new adventure. And 7 am came and went; then 7:30, then 8:00. At this moment the night attendant woke up and informed me that the balloon ride had been postponed until tomorrow. Rats!

I had a second round in the chamber, however, because I had also booked a tour of “The Highlights of Cappadocia” for 9:30 am (assuming I would be back on time from my balloon ride). So I had a leisurely breakfast, and at 9:30 am stood at the porch of the hotel, ready for pickup. And then 10 am came and went, and 10:30 am, and … I finally decided to stop playing the fool, sent a heartfelt generic curse to all tour operators, and walked out into the town to make my own luck. And good luck it was. I found an outfit that offered scooters for rental, walked in, and 10 minutes later I was on wheels, free as a … roadrunner?

It was wonderful 😊 I went up every side road I found, looking at the rocks and finding just the right angle to take a picture of the unusual landscape. I try not to torture my friends with hundreds of photos from the same vantage point, but feel free to ask me to see a selection and you will fall in love with the place.

The way I see it, this region was very similar to the Cuenca de Libres-Oriental, in central-eastern Mexico. I did my PhD work in the volcanic center of Los Humeros, which sits at the north end of this endorheic basin and which I have gave my Planetary Geology students as a likely terrestrial analog for the pateras of Venus. If you are a normal person the previous sentence should make no sense, but to me it is clear as day. An endorheic basin is one that doesn’t have drainage to the sea, so it is normally filled with a thick sequence of fluvial and lacustrine sediments, alluvial fans, and the occasional volcanic products of your local volcanic center. If you happen to be dealing with a strongly compositionally-zoned magmatic system, then you get all sorts of rhyolitic ignimbrites, air-fall tuffs, and occasional basalt flows interbedded with the lacustrine and fluvial sediments. Now, open such basin to drainage to the sea, as is happening to the Cuenca de Libres-Oriental near Teziutlán, and in no time whatsoever you have erosion dissecting the whole sequence of volcaniclastic lacustrine deposits, ignimbrites, and basalts to create a whimsical landscape like that of Cappadocia. The question now is, where is the equivalent to Los Humeros here in Turkey? I shall devote my wanderings tomorrow to answer this question.

My meanderings brought me to the handsome city of Űrgüp, which not only has its share of spectacular landscape, but also has some very modern and comfortable suburbs. It struck me that construction standards are as high as those of Europe or the US, and undoubtedly follow the guidance of the International Building Code. Then I reflected that this was a good thing, because Turkey has its own dangerous transform fault, the North Anatolian fault, that runs along the whole northern shores of Anatolia (now the Asian part of Turkey), just off the Black Sea. Here in Cappadocia we would be in a similar position to the Mojave Desert, where the fault has given birth to a host of trans-tensional basins, conjugate faults, and volcanism.

In any case, I enjoyed my visit to Űrgüp, and had lunch there at a small bakery, where the enterprising owners also run a small eatery offering oven-baked goods to a well established local clientele. I had a type of Turkish pizza, very thin and very crispy, to which you add parsley, tomato slices, turnip slices and pepperoncini. Very yummy. The owners must be in their late 50’s, but they were full of energy and smiles, transacting business with the speed of lightening and using the sophisticated accounting method of keeping all cash in a drawer where all payments went in and from where all disbursements came out of. I was contentedly admiring the comings and goings when it struck me: I am far into Asia Minor, not understanding a lick of Turkish, and yet I have been welcomed by one and all into the fold of this small eatery. I am very lucky indeed.

On my way back I stopped at the town of Avanos, at the shores of the Kisilirmak River (which is ultimately responsible for the draining and spectacular erosional forms of Cappadocia). It is a cute city, with its riverside promenade, and the hub of an important ceramics industry. I visited the Güray Müze underground ceramic museum, which is housed in a man-made excavated cave of great elegance and beauty. The pieces exhibited range from the Bronze Age to the 1900’s (they are OK, but not great). The real impressive part comprises the workshops and the shop rooms, which go on and on and have one exquisite piece of pottery after another. I was ready to buy a truckload, so it is a good thing that I have neither the money to buy them, nor the place to put them. There are wine decanters that are 1 m tall and can probably hold 20 liters!

Happy and tired I decided to have a special dinner I have seen advertised: Testi Kebabi. This is a terracotta pot, of the size and geometry of a large Babushka. In other words, it has a bottom and a top half, and is hollow. The cook puts the whole fixings (lamb pieces in  my case) inside, seals the two halves with a smear of clay, and puts it straight into the wood fire. After a good 20 minutes the pot is pulled out, set on a bed of salt soaked in alcohol, and is brought to the table in flames! Very impressive. Of course, you, the tourist, have no idea how to get to the contents inside and get burnt, which affords the waiter a moment of mirth. Then he comes in, armed with a hot pad and a small mallet, and with a decisive tap separates the two halves and voilá, there is your dinner! I took many awesome pictures, but to be honest the dish was kind of bland. But now that I have the idea I will try to recreate it, and I am much better cook than whoever put my Testi Kababi together 😉

Here I go again, 6 am and I am ready for pickup. The night is cloudy so I am hoping that will not derail my plans for a hot-air baloon ride. 6:30 am and I am getting anxious, so using sign language I explain to the young night clerk that I am worried. He calls and I am assured that I will soon be picked up. 6:50 am and here is the van. I was the third of a group that eventually grew up to 15, so clearly there are quite a few adventurous tourists. We drive out into a valley, and suddenly we are surrounded by people, trucks, gondolas, and of course balloons in the process of being filled with hot air. It is a fascinating spectacle to see the skins illuminate for just a few seconds when the burners are fired. I feel I am in a cabal with my fellow wizards. Finally our balloon takes a leap and stands, incredibly tall, and all 30 of us climb unto the gondola/basket. A few words of welcome from our pilot and off we go unto the breaking dawn. Wow, we almost clipped that other balloon. Watch out, we are going to hit the side of the hill! No. Our pilot is a pro, and with a staccato of fire bursts delivered at a modern rythm he gently lifts us out of the valley and we get our first aerial view of the network of valleys that forms the fairy land of Cappadocia. I am mesmerized floating over the remains of the mighty sedimentary basin that existed here during the late Miocene, 10 to 5 million years ago.

And look at all those balloons! There must be at least a 100 of them, which at 30 heads a piece, makes for a might army of tourists, 3000 strong. Floating gently, suspended in mid-air, even the more fearful open their eyes in wonder at the birds eye view that rolls under our feet. I notice, once again, the value of photogeology, which allows us to easily see faults and fracture patterns, different formations, and the extraordinary dendritic pattern of valleys and ridges that formed when the basin was breached. My camera is working incessantly, trying to capture a view that can only be understood when you are there.

Our pilot had his fun, and brought us down until we almost touched the ground, almost brushing against the top of hills and small trees, only to later lift us to a height of 800 m above ground level. Then he told us that we were going to land, and that we had to brace for a hard bump, grabbing to the loops on the sides of the basket, and crouching to better absorb the impact. I found the bending hard but could see that we could easily be tossed around if not well braced. Then he laughed and told us to stand up and not look so silly and scared. We were about one meter from the ground when out of nowhere the crew materialized out of thin air and grabbed at the ropes, gently tugging the basket until it landed square on top of the trailer that was to transport it back to town. As the balloon deflated we crawled out of our cubbies, and the crew celebrated our successful balloon ride by offering us a glass of champagne (and of course passing the hat).

It was the best experience ever!

Back in town I went back to the scooter rental place and got wheels for my next exploration trip. I have found that Google Maps includes a Digital Elevation Model (DEM), and looking at it I found two possible volcanic sources: Hamurcu volcano (?) 40 km to the east, and Őzyayla volcano (?) 20 km to the west. My plan was to explore Hamurcu today, and Őzyayla tomorrow. So here I go, in my little 125 cc Honda scooter, joining the heavy trucks along highway D-300. It was cold, and it was scary. Actually, the big trucks were for the most part OK, but the jerks that drive cars think that they can pass me at a distance of a couple of meters and that is just fine with them. Assholes. After 30 km of cold head wind I was chilled to the bone, seriously questioning the wisdom of my expeditionary plan. Ahead of me lay a broad valley, mantled in a thing fog, and beyond it I could barely discern the outline of a snow-clad range, maybe 30 or 40 km away.

In due time I made it to Hamurcu, and found indeed a mean little somma, no larger than 5 or 10 km in diameter, dotted with post-collapse domes. The somma (the name given to a small caldera, like that of Vesubius or the Nevado de Colima) had been breached, and the eroded interior showed an intracaldera ignimbrite of no peculiar distinction. The broad depression has been settled by farmers and the village of Hamurcu, so it lacks that “natural” character that makes volcanoes so attractive. There were a large number of loitering Turkish dogs, which are large, white, and aggressive. I am glad I don’t have to map this particular volcano. On the way down I kept looking at those snowy mountains, who stubbornly remained covered in clouds. I never got a good picture of it, but at some point the veil of fog lifted and I could see in the distance the outline of a huge volcano! The individual “mountains” were large domes, which led like stair steps to the craggy summit, so I am going to label it a dome complex, like Mount Lassen, but much more spectacular. To me it looked like Mount Denali, retreating unto the distance behind a wall of inaccessible subsidiary peaks. Later I found out from Google Maps that this is Erciyes Mountain (volcano) and is 12,850 ft or 4,000 m high. The surrounding valley is 3,400 ft or 1,000 m in elevation, so the mountain rises an effective 3,000 m, or about as large as Mount Etna.

Still, majestic as it is, Erciyes is not likely to be the source of the Cappadocian ignimbrites, because it does not show any evidence of having fueled a large Plinian eruption.

Highly satisfied with the results of my trip I headed back, again under a freezing wind, but found time to detour into the valley of the very fine Kisilirmak River. Unfortunately when I got home I was chilled to the bone, shaking uncontrollably, so I got rid of my cold clothes, jumped into bed, and took a well-deserved nap. When I got up I went up another of the fabulous ravines of the region, took tons of pictures (including a sunset shot of now cloudless Erciyes volcano in the far distance), and had a tasty meal of lamb chops. Life is good.

The following day … “How was your exploration trip this morning, Horacio?” … I don’t want to talk about it. … It was freezing cold, dangerous, and pointless. It started when the first light of dawn was showing, and since I was warm I didn’t feel the chill of the air, but as dawn broke the wind from Siberia picked up and penetrated everywhere. It even lifted my helmet, so my brain froze as well as the rest of my body. The highway was treacherous with ice but mercifully there was very little traffic that early in the morning. And then I reached the city of Nevsehir, which is not a handful of desert houses, but a large and beautiful city, with its share of cliff dwellings but many new handsome apartment buildings. It is cut by an incredibly deep canyon where the Kisilirmak River runs through. But I don’t want to talk about it. … Because the city is inhabited by jerks, who drive too fast and have no regard for the safety of scooter riders. It should be named Jerktown. And just outside the city the quality of the highway deteriorated enormously, so riding became a scary compromise between sliding on the thin layer of ice, bouncing in the ruts of big trucks, and being passed by said big trucks. I definitely don’t want to talk about it … By the time I reached a point where a side road headed in an interesting direction I was out of time, unnerved, and shivering, so without having discovered anything interesting I had to run around, and run the treacherous gauntlet of icy roads and big trucks. But I really don’t want to talk about it … because I had to cross through Jerktown one more time, and this time the jerks were out in force, competing with each other in terms of jerkiness in rush hour traffic, and threatening my life and limb over and over again. I am just not going to talk about it … but I will tell you that by the time I got back to Göreme I was one solid block of ice, and it took me about two hours leaning against the heater in my room to thaw out and stop shivering.

By noon I was human again, and was ready for the shuttle to take me to the airport to catch my flight to Istanbul IST, where I had already booked a 40-euro taxi ride to my hotel in the outskirts of downtown via Booking.com. I love it. Without any fuzz my facilitator was waiting at the exit of the airport, walked me to my taxi, and an hour later I was dropped in front of my hotel, the Florya House Hotel. Small and unassuming, and with a wonderful friendly staff, the hotel is along one of the lively streets of modern Istanbul, Florya Street, full or coffee shops, restaurants, grocers, mini-markets, and other friendly businesses. The street invites you to walk along it and just soak the atmosphere. I know I am going to like it here.

I have two days left before I head back home, and part of me says that I should spend them at the hotel, recovering. But I am in Istanbul! I am just going to go out for a little bit, to visit Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Basilica Cistern, the Spice Bazaar, the Marmara seashore, the Grand Bazaar, the Bosphorus … it is not going to be as relaxing as I thought at the beginning. I was in Istanbul 15 years ago, with Chrissy and Gustav, so in my mind all I need to do is “remind myself” of the many pecularities of this cosmopolitan city. Its greatest claim to fame is that is spans two continents, with a European half west of the Bosphorus Strait, and an Asian side east of it. The Bosphorus Strait is the narrow connection between the Sea of Marmara to the south and the Black Sea to the north.

I started my exploration by learning to navigate the Marmaray metro, which runs parallel to the seashore of Marmara, and connects my location in the west with the city center. It is a perfectly modern metro system, but I had to figure out how to buy my ticket in Turkish, and the stations do not have signs in them! (later I discovered that if you are fast you cam catch a name of the station at the very beginning of the concourse). I woke up early, so I was in the metro by 6:30 am, and at the Sultanahmet Square by 7:30 am, still in darkness. So I joined the crowds for morning prayer at Hagia Sophia, walked through the fog-shrouded square to the Blue mosque, learned all about Islam in the explanatory panels, learnt that the Basilica Cistern was closed for renovations (bummer, because that was one of the must-see places in my list), meandered through the Egyptian Spice Bazaar as it was waking up—there is nothing more colorful than this market place—and had a fish baguette for breakfast at one of the market stalls. Later I had a tasty crispy lamb “hagis” baguette for lunch, and on the following day a tasty breakfast soup thickened with barley (the eating possibilities in Istanbul are endless!).

Starting at 11 am my main mode of transportation was the one-day ticket of the Big Bus, which is currently operating two routes through the city. I got down at the Naval Museum, which is now housed in a new facility and is very nice indeed. Folks here are very proud of the Ottoman Empire, and of its naval control of the eastern Mediterranean from the Middle Ages to First World War, so I saw rooms and rooms of the many battles won by the Ottomans. In the Ottoman vein, there was one panel explaining how the Turkish Marines had to intervene in Cyprus in 1974 “to stop the human right violations of the Greek Cypriots against the Turkish Cypriots”. Comes to show that history can be told from different points of view.

On my second and last day I limited myself to a cruise along the Golden Horn estuary (that cuts the European side of Istanbul into the southern Old City and the more modern northern Galata district) and the Bosphorus Strait, which separates the older European part of the city from the newer Asian side, where a lot of the modern construction has taken place. The shores are as desirable as the Cote D’Azur, and there are a few grand old seashore chateaus and many new high rise apartment buildings with beautiful balconies and views to the sea. But I am really getting tired, because form time to time I will doze out despite all the beauty scrolling in front of me.

On the way back from the dock I stumbled unto the main train station, which to my experienced eyes looks like it is out of commission. Curious I checked Google to see if there were trains from Paris to Istanbul, and it seems you can get here via train in a couple of days of travel. Then I googled “Orient Express”, and found that once a year you can travel in luxury from Paris to Istanbul (or viceversa), in 5 days, for the bargain price of 30,000 British pounds per cabin. I don’t think I will be doing that anytime soon.

And that is it. I am now in my room waiting for someone to collect the samples for the PCR test, and tomorrow I will be heading for the airport at the wee hours of the morning to fly Air Canada to Heathrow, then Montreal, then San Francisco. Air Canada is being a pain in the butt regarding the Covid paranoia, so if I am arrested for a 14 day quarantine in Montreal you will have to wait until February to hear from me again. Maybe I will use the time to rest and recover.

Then again, Spring Break will be upon us soon. March 25 to April 4 … hmm … where shall I go next?

Finis

Summer 2021 - Cyprus

Cyprus 2021

It is time for me to start on the way back, via Cyprus and Turkey. I really have no idea on what to expect in Cyprus, except that it is geologically famous because the core of its mountainous south is an ophiolite, the Troodos Ophiolite, which is a piece of the Mediterranean ocean floor that has emerged unto land by the relentless closure of the Mediterranean by Africa. I hope I have a chance to go explore it.

The trip was quite uneventful, but when I got to Larnaca airport it was raining. We were herded into a hall with nurses, where a nasal swab was taken, and the results would presumably be accessible through the QR code of my free arrival form. I had no problem finding the shuttle to Nicosia, Cyprus’ capital, which is about 50 km away, and right away found out that here they drive on the wrong side of the road. Yes, Cyprus was at some time taken over by the Brits, who took it away from the Ottoman Empire, and they left their imprint in both the use of Greek and English as official languages. There is also an important Turkish population (20% of Cypriots), and in fact the Turkish army invaded Cyprus in 1974 (at the same time that Nixon was resigning office and the attention of the US was on its own domestic problems) and claimed the northern third of the island for their cousins the Turkish Cypriots as the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (more about this as I get a chance to learn more about the country).

We got to Nicosia and there was light rain. I had to walk 30 minutes to my accommodation, so I donned my poncho and pulled out my umbrella anticipating an easy walk. I had not gone more than 10 minutes when the skies opened up and I got drenched! Estaba lloviendo a cántaros! Fortunately the poncho kept my backpack and body dry, but I might as well had been a fish from the waist down. But thank God for Google Maps, even under a deluge I managed to navigate my way in, and was glad when I stepped in and said hello to Andy, my host.

Andy is a Greek Cypriot, and now that he is retired from being a computer geek he runs a B&B out of one of his apartments. A very friendly guy, he offered to cook a pasta dish for his four guests, which I was very glad to accept since the prospect of going out to get some food was not at all attractive. So there were five of us to dinner: Andy, Elaine (American), Bernard (French), Jean-Yves (French), and myself. Delicious and accompanied by very good conversation, it was the perfect way to spend the evening.

I woke up at 5 am, because I was planning to go take the bus to the town of Troodos to go kick the rocks. I was discouraged by the weather forecast: 2 degrees C and a 90% forecast for mixed rain and snow for the whole day. The same forecast anticipates sun for January 3, so I am going to gamble and leave my geologic excursion for the last day.

So, what do you do on a rainy December 31? Stay out of the rain visiting museums is my go-to default activity, so I got my micro-umbrella and took the easy half hour down to the Old City, where the Cyprus Archaeology Museum is located. They were open and free! I take this as an indication of the prosperity of the country, where the museums are maintained by public funds. They were a bit gruff asking me for my arrival QR, scanned it and presumably got the negative result of my Covid nasal swab, and silently pointed toward the entrance to the exhibition. I must be Covid-free 😊

Nice museum with lots of pottery and bronze figurines (Cyprus was the very best known source of copper to the ancient world), helmets and swords. My favorite were the terracotta warriors, which, although not as impressive as the Chinese ones, made for a very nice exhibit at the museum. It took me about an hour to go through, and then I headed for the other interesting museums of the City of Nicosia, and of Byzantine pieces of art, but alas found them closed. The first one was closed for the long New Year’s weekend, but the latter has been closed for a couple of years now due to the pandemic. Rats!

Now, it turns that the invasion front of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus cuts the city of Nicosia in two, just like the Berlin wall did to Berlin, so I decided to go visit “the other side”. Under normal circumstances all you have to do is show your passport, but because of Covid I was asked to show the negative results of my Covid test. I confidently showed my QR code, but that did me no good, because of course the Turkish invasion forces do not have access to the Cyprus computer databases. I had to turn back, more curious than ever about this divided city and country. My host Andy later explained to me the basics of the conflict, which went back to the desire of Turkey to regain whatever it could of its Ottoman Empire, the duplicitous tactics of the British to pit Greek Cypriots against Turkish Cypriots so they would not be bugging Her Majesty with attempts to become their own self-standing country (which they became anyway in 1960, but only after considerable bad blood had been sowed among the ethnic factions), an ill timing of a coup d’état that for the first time in 4,000 years toppled the democratic government of Greece, and the Americans dealing with Watergate and Nixon. In this perfect storm the Turks saw their chance to jump on defenseless Cyprus (although a member of NATO, Cyprus was not entitled to defense by NATO forces because Turkey is also a member of NATO!). Now, the UN and the world at large has condemned the actions of the Turks, and the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is recognized by no other country in the world except for Turkey, but “might is right” and nobody has done anything about it since 1974. Greek Cypriots have as little to do with the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus as they can, but still have to provide services such as power to the region, since they still regard it as a part of Cyprus. What a big mess for this poor little peaceful country! They have the misfortune of being at a very strategic location in the Mediterranean.

I spent the afternoon at home, and in the evening Andy and our fellow guest Elaine organized a small but entertaining New Year’s celebration. Elaine made a very nice Greek salad and an amazing quiche, Andy popped open a bottle of sparkling wine for toasting in the New Year, and the French friends provided wine for dinner. It was a lovely dinner but by 9 pm we were all done in and went to bed. Feliz Aňo Nuevo to us all!

The First of January of 2022! An open slate for new travels and adventures, making new friends, and starting new projects. For example, Faby is starting her new practice as a solo veterinarian. She is going to concentrate on pet wellness, will provide services on the home of her clients using her Subaru to move from one place to another, and eventually will have a van where she can carry all her stuff. Her practice is called Dr. Lola’s Veterinary Care. Lots of good luck, Muňequita!

I was certainly not going to spend the day in my room, so around 9 am walked down to the bus station located in the Kolokasi Parking Lot, with the plan of taking a bus to Larnaca, which is a city along the coast, 40 km to the south of Nicosia. I had gone by Kolokasi yesterday, on my ignominious retreat from the failed attempt to cross into North Cyprus, and was pleased with myself for remembering the way back. Once I got there, however, I was sadly disappointed to see the rows and rows of cold, empty buses, with not a sign of life. Of course, January 1! But surely some people would want to go to the beach to celebrate and to enjoy the radiant sun after the pouring rain of the last two days?

Sadly disappointed I walked aimlessly along the city walls, and was rewarded by seeing a busy elongated plaza, Solomos Square, with a lively number of people getting on and off buses. Aha! I had found the Intercity Bus Station, from which buses to major cities depart. Look at that, there is a bus departing for Larnaca in 45 minutes! I very much enjoyed the bus ride, if nothing else because it allowed me the feeling of freedom that I lost together with my driver’s license.

Larnaca is definitely a tourist city, well appointed to receive hordes of visitors. For today it was well attended by Cypriots celebrating the start of the new year. People were promenading along the waterfront, but very few were actually bathing, because compared to their standard of 35 degrees C, the current 12 degrees C feels chilly. I was beginning to get hungry, so I sought a restaurant by the beach and treated myself to a crispy fish with salad and potatoes.

Unfortunately, the museums were closed, and there is only so much people-watching I can do, so I took the 4 pm bus back, enjoyed the colors of the setting sun over the ag fields, and managed not to get lost on my walk back to my home. Andy was there (he actually lives in an upper floor apartment) so I told him about my day. He the asked what my plans were for tomorrow and I told him I was going to go visit Paphos, on the west side of the island. “Well”, he said, “I a m going to bike with some friends on the mountains to the north of Paphos, and can give you a ride there if you want.” Perfect! I had planned on taking the early bus, to be there at 9 am, and Andy was planning on leaving at 9:30 am to get to Paphos around 11 am, but I gladly took the tradeoff in exchange for the company and conversation.

So at 9 am I went down to the parking lot, where I met Beatrice and Lucas, a young Lithuanian couple currently living in Cyprus. Andy and Lucas were busy mounting three bikes on the rack, so Beatrice and I had plenty of time to talk about her plans to pursue an online Master’s degree in Psychology at a British university. It took a good half hour to get ready, because Andy has a very expensive bike and he wanted to be triple-sure that nothing was rubbing against it, but we finally got under way.

Cyprus is beautiful and prosperous, an observation I repeated several times during the trip, much to Andy’s delight. I learnt that the main sources of income are tourism and services. In the latter category are the many corporations who have their headquarters in Cyprus because of very favorable tax breaks, the registration of many ships that use the Cypriot flag, and to a lesser extent banking. Banking was a big sector until they went greedy, offered too many loans that they didn’t have the collateral for, and incurred huge international debt. Of course, the normal citizen gladly took on the loans that the banks were pushing on them, so when the bubble burst in 2013 the economy plunged down. The creditors demanded repayment, the banks ran out of assets and in turn demanded repayment from the people, and when they defaulted simply “appropriated” the balance of any accounts that had more than 100,000 euros in them. Overnight millionaire high-fliers became lowly pedestrians and life became very difficult. But they recovered, and today Cyprus still has a very large upper middle-class, and the island-nation has a rosy future.

Andy dropped me off at the main roundabout between the freeway and the main road to Paphos, with the idea that I would take a bus from there. Unfortunately the bus timetables are very rare, so after waiting for 10 minutes I became impatient and started walking. An hour later I arrived in Paphos, a bit tired from the long walk, but eager to visit the archeologic sites of Nea Paphos (200 to 400 AD) and the Tombs of the Kings.

Nea Pahos might be thought of as yet another late Greek settlement along the coast of the Mediterranean, with all sorts of villas now represented by the stumps of walls that have been duly excavated and reinforced by Polish archaeologists. But it has a unique claim to fame on its beautiful floor mosaics, which are in a remarkable state of preservation, and of which there are 50 or perhaps 100. Only half of them are exposed to the public; the other half is covered by a thin layer of sand placed there by the archaeologic team to protect them. Interestingly, many of the scenes are based on Greek mythology, but the representation style is reminiscent of what would later bloom into the Byzantine style. Thus, the demigods have halos around their heads, and baby Dionisius sitting on the lap of his mother bears a striking resemblance to later images of the Madonna and Child. Other mosaics show beautiful hunting scenes or are composed of hypnotizing geometric designs.

I escaped Nea Paphos through a side door that allowed me access to the seaside promenade, and “leisurely” strolled along the waterfront. I say “leisurely” because you will all agree with me that I am not good at simple leisure, and because I wanted to have enough time to visit the Tombs of the Kings and still catch the 3 pm bus back to Nicosia. The Tombs are really the necropolis of Nea Paphos, where a series of caves were excavated in the moderately indurated sandstones. Some were even carved as the entrance of modest temples (a pale similarity to Petra, in Jordan). Niches were then carved in the walls of the caves, and that is where the sarcophagi would be placed. Nothing looks really royal, so I think the Place should be called the Tombs of the Burghers.

I made it in time to catch my bus, and in due time came to my home for a good night of rest.

My last full day in Cyprus, and I wanted to spend it travelling up to the Troodos Mountains, which are of geologic fame because they are a piece of the ocean floor (what we geologists call an ophiolite), that was heaved up to form the core of Cyprus. I just had to see this geologic wonder, so I woke up early in the morning and walked to the Kolokasi Parking Lot to catch the 8 am bus. The place still looked deserted, but the office was open and I was dismissively sent to the back of the parking lot to wait for my bus. There are no labels anywhere, so I was a bit paranoid and accosted every driver I saw until I finally found the right one. I was very pleasantly surprised when he told me the fare was 1.50 euros (I had pay 7 euros for the round trip to Larnaca, and 9 euros for the return trip from Paphos). Was there a catch here? I very much enjoyed the 60-km trip there, and was looking out of every window checking my mental to-be-seen list with pillow lavas, hyaloclastites, and grungy brown rocks that in my opinion are weathered dunites and websterites criss-crossed by rodingite dikes. Then the bus made a sharp turn, and the driver instructed us to get down and wait for the shuttle to Troodos. Aha, I knew there was a catch! I bet we are going to have to pay 10 or 20 euros to go the last 15 km up the mountain.

There was a little convenience store there, so I asked at what time was the shuttle coming. The young man just shrugged his shoulders in a sign of ignorance (don’t these folks see the comings and goings in the area?). There was a schedule of sorts tacked to the door, but it was in Greek to me, both literally and figuratively. At least I managed to figure out I was in the town of Kakopetria, and because I had nothing better to do I walked down the steep main street to see the town wake up. Around 10 am I went back to the bus stop and was happy to see there was a shuttle waiting there. I tried to talk to the driver but he blew me off, started his shuttle, and in a display of infinite cruelty waved at me. Grr! Half an hour later another shuttle came by, this time with a friendlier driver. He listened carefully to what I was asking, then looked at his clipboard, and cheerfully informed me that the shuttle to Troodos would depart at 12:30 pm ☹

So I went for another walk through Kakopetria, this time along the banks of the river, where I saw first hand a series of tilted sheeted dikes, and a big boulder of websterite (this is an ultramafic rock, of the type that makes portions of the mantle, with similar proportions of orthopyroxene and clinopyroxene; an alternative name would be a pyroxenite). Unfortunately I did not see any boulders of dunite (an ultramafic rock formed by 90% olivine crystals) or rodingite dikes (this is a metasomatic rock that forms upon hydration of the mantle, with a distinctive white color due to the abundance of scapolite), so I had to content myself with recognizing these exotic rocks in the rock walls of the town. Luckily for the homeowners I was not carrying my geologist hammer.

The shuttle came at last, and I was surprised that it was the same friendly driver who had told me of the schedule earlier on. I was reaching for my wallet to pay a hefty fee when I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the shuttle was free! I love free! The shuttle must have taken 20 of us up the mountain, and we all asked at what time was the last run down the mountain, which made me think that there was going to be a glut for return seats after the shuttle had delivered several batches of 20. Maybe I needed to take an earlier shuttle down from the mountain … ah, but there are no printed schedules anywhere, so I was going to have to stalk the shuttle stop to catch him in one of his afternoon runs.

The Troodos Mountains are very pretty. They had a coating of snow, so there were tons of locals who had come for a walk, or to bring the kids to play in the snow. Ah, but me breaking my leg in black ice has caused me to be deeply suspicious of ice, so there were only a limited number of paths I felt like exploring. One of them brought me to a panoramic view of the mountains, and of the big asbestos mine that has placed Cyprus as one of the world’s largest producers of asbestos (or amianto in Greek). Not surprising to find this mine here, because serpentinite minerals found in ophiolites often rearrange themselves as asbestos fibers. The only thing I didn’t see was a copper mine, a commodity that made Cyprus famous in antiquity (they exported ingots of copper all over the Mediterranean, thus fueling the Bronze Age). I expected to see copper mines because copper sulfide accumulations are often found in and around submarine hydrothermal vents, but if it had been obvious it would have been mined a few millennia BC.

After a delicious lunch of grilled pork kebabs, eaten around a warm and smokey fire, I went back to the bus stop. How long would I have to wait there? No, the best thing was to be proactive and hitch a ride down the mountain. So I did, and after half hour of sticking my thumb up a young couple picked me up. They had rented a cabin in the mountains for the long weekend, and were heading down to a nearby town to look for lunch. Fabulously friendly Cypriots we were soon engaged in a lively conversation about Mexico, online instruction, the French Revolution, and the struggle between Julius Caesar and senate of the Roman Republic. Too bad Kakopetria was only 15 minutes away.

So I took my 1.50 euro bus back to Nicosia, and enjoyed the transition from the high mountains to the plains where the capital sprawls. Then I looked to the mountains to the north, in the invaded part of Cyprus, and spotted a giant Turkish flag drawn on the mountains with rocks and colored powder. Talk about provocation. The peaceful Cypriots must feel their gut wrenched every time they look north.

As soon as I got to Nicosia I had to look for a pharmacy where I could get my Covid rapid test, so tomorrow I can cross the border into the occupied zone and take the plane to Ankara. I was lucky and right away found a pharmacy that offered the service for only 4 euros. The young woman in charge asked me what I needed to test for, and when I explained she nodded knowingly and lined up what was needed. Swab, swab and I was asked to wait for 15 minutes, at the end of which she gave me two pieces of paper, explaining that the one was for the border crossing and the other was for the airport. Perfect!

I had decided to treat myself to a steak dinner at the restaurant where my fellow lodger, Axileas, works as the grill master. The restaurant is called the Zahoulis Grill, and according to Axileas is very good. I was subjected to the Covid interrogation by the head waiter, who was unimpressed by my test results and my tattered vaccination certificate. Finally he reluctantly agreed to let me in, and I found that in the whole of the big restaurant there were only two dining parties and me. No wonder if you have to produce your Death Certificate before they let you in! Now I played my special card, and sent my regards to Axileas. The head waiter appeared unimpressed, but when my friend came around to say hello and recommend the best dish in the menu the whole tone of the afternoon changed. The waitress was all smiles, and was delighted to learn that I was Mexican! She asked me many questions and treated me with special care. I had asked for the 700 grams pork flank, which was indeed enormous and delicious, and by the time I was done I was ready to roll. So I asked for the check, but before she brought me a buttered cream with berries dessert, and when the check came I noticed that she had given me a Mexican discount of 10% (that’s right, it said “Mexican Discount”; I wish I had kept the check to show it to you all). My friend came out to say goodbye, and the whole outfit waved at me as I headed for the exit. Rarely have I felt so loved 😊

All good things must come to an end, and my pleasant visit to Cyprus was not an exception. The following morning I said goodbye to Andy, my host, and took the 8:30 bus to downtown. I got off at Solomos Square and took an easy stroll down Ledra Street to the border. This time everything was in order, and by 9:30 am I was walking down the streets of north Nicosia, which in 50 years has transformed itself into a Turkish city. I had with me about 300 euros and figured I would try to survive for the next 6 days on this amount, changing euros into Turkish liras little by little. The exchange rate is 1 euro = 15 lira.

Andy had guessed I would have to pay about 50 euros to get to Ercan Airport, which I thought was scandalously high because the airport cannot be more than 25 km away. So, being ultimately cheap I figured I would try to take a bus there. Where to find such bus? I asked a gentleman who was hanging around a bus stop, and barely understanding “airport” he kept saying “terminal”. Clearly, he was suggesting I had to go to the bus depot. But where was that? My informant asked me to follow him and delivered me in the hands of a bus driver, and he in turn asked me to jump in so he could take me to the “terminal” without asking me to pay the fare. He dropped me off at a huge parking lot, and with mimicry directed me to the far back of the depot, where I finally found the airport bus, which for 3 euros took me there without fuzz. You can find nice people everywhere if you take the time to look for them.

Ercan “International” Airport is a leper among airports. Because the UN does not legitimize the invasion by Turkey, the airport cannot be used by any airline that abides by international treaties. The only airlines that use it, in defiance to the international rules, are Turkish Airlines and Pegasus. Turkish Airlines is not allowed to fly into the regular Cypriot airport at Larnaca. I think Pegasus flies into Tunis, which is why the airport has added the term “International” to its name (just like the Monclova International Airport 😊).

The trip to Ankara was uneventful, but I am pretty sore that no one asked to see the visa for which I paid 150 euros, or the Turkish Health Certificate for which I paid another 75 euros. I suspect I have been taken!

Summer 2021 - Paris and Crete

Paris 2021

My friends Géraldine and Nicholas have welcomed me in their home for Christmas, so I flew into Charles de Gaulle airport on the early morning of December 23, took the train to Gare d’Nord, and spent a couple of fun hours walking around one of the main shopping areas of Paris, gathering presents. I discarded a lot of weight from my backpack before leaving Pantelleria, so I didn’t feel the need to find a place to leave my luggage, which meant that I was like an elephant in a china shop whenever I entered a magazine, but at the end I completed my shopping and headed to their home, in Triel-sur-Seine. The boys, Theo and Lucas, met me at the train station and a few minutes later I was exchanging hugs and stories with my good friends. Marcel, Géraldine’s father is also here for Christmas Eve, so we will make a happy group of six.

I had spent the night cramped into an airport bench in Milan, so as soon as I sat down in the living room I was asleep, warmed by the sense of relaxation when you get home after a long trip.

Christmas Eve was a fun time of preparation. First of all Marcel woke up even earlier than I did, to go by a few baguettes of fresh bread and brew some coffee. We had a good chat while the rest of the family started to mill around. I took a walk, crossed the Seine, and went to the Carrefour supermarket to buy a plug for my computer (the French plug has a male ground electrode, so my Italian plug would not work). Later Nicholas went back to Carrefour to get some last minute necessaries, while Géraldine, Marcel, and I went to buy legumes to the big Farmer’s Market.

Finally everything was ready, and we opened the celebration with an excellent Champagne and appetizers of Pate de Fois Gras. Then came the main dish, escargot, followed by a risotto with scallops in Hollandaise sauce. Yum! I must say here that this was a true risotto in the sense that it was creamy and fluffy, and not just your regular rice dish. Nicholas must have spent a good hour cooking it and folding it slowly to achieve the perfect consistency.

Christmas Day is the real big celebration in France, so we all woke up early to feverish activity (well, Géraldine and Nicholas jumped into action while I did my best to stay out of their way). Overall cleaning and vacuuming, added leaf to the dining room table to accommodate two new guests, Christmasy table cloth, setting the table, and putting the 2-kg roast in the oven. The new guests were Nicholas’ parents, Geneviève and Jean-Claude, who arrived around 11 am from Orleans, full of energy and good cheer. Here are a couple of funny facts, all three of the parents live in Orleans and all three were born in 1940, so all of them are 82 years old. There must be some truth about the European lifestyle being conducive to old age, because all three are in very good health; I will have to think about them next time I feel like complaining about an aching back.

Shortly after they arrived, we opened presents. It went pretty fast because everyone received his/her presents and then we all opened them at the same time, looking at the other person and saying Merci Pere Noël, without having to take pictures of every single gift. We did take a family picture to celebrate the 2021 Christmas, and with that we went to the table for the Christmas lunch (remember that in Europe the midday meal is the heavy meal of the day). Geneviève brought along her specialty, fois gras de canard, which was absolutely delicious as the opening dish. Then came the roast, which had been cooked to perfection, accompanied by mashed potatoes, mashed carrots, mashed something else I cannot remember, and steamed green beans. Then of course we had to have stinky cheese, dessert, and coffee. Wow, what a meal!

For the next two hours we sat contentedly chatting at the table, after which Géraldine and Nicholas started to agitate about dinner! Oh, my God! I made a feeble protest, which was cut short by Géraldine reminding me that I was probably going to have to live on tomatoes and cucumbers while in Greece.

The following morning the three grandparents took their leave and headed back to Orleans. By the way, in their family grandma receives the name Mami, and grandpa is called Papi. Since there were two grandfathers the kids had to distinguish them as Papi Marcel and Papi Jean-Claude (and even the great-grandmother is Mami Lin). They liked our system of giving different names to the different grandparents, such as Nana, Papa, and Opa.

I was worried that in the last moment Air France was going to ask for me to get a negative Covid test at the airport, so I said goodbye to my beloved Géraldine, and Nicholas and Lucas drove me to the airport at 15:30. It turns out nobody asked me for nothing, and by 16:30 I was already in the boarding area, patiently waiting for my 21:00 flight to Athens. By now I am a specialist on “hurry up and wait”!

Crete 2021

I landed in Athens at 1:00 (yes, that is 1 am), and again sat at the airport waiting for my 8:00 flight to Heraklion in the island of Crete, where I finally landed at 9:00. A still had to walk for about one hour from the airport to downtown (only to later discover that I could have taken the 1 euro bus), but by 10:00 I was installed in the small flat I will call home for the next four days. I spent that day walking through Heraklion, which is a very pretty and lively city, and doing the basic shopping. I am still in touch with my inner Italian, so my “basics” included things like beer, wine, pasta, risotto, and olive oil (plus coffee, sugar, milk, salt, veggies, garlic, and onion). I am sure I once again bought too much, but I live in fear of going hungry.

The following day I devoted to visiting the archaeologic site of Knossos, where old King Minos had his palace. Minos is intimately linked with the story of the Minotaur, whose legend, as described by Wikipedia, is X-rated, but in its bare bones tells us that Minos’ wife, Pasiphaë, gave birth to Asterius, who was called the Minotaur. He had the face of a bull, but the rest of him was human; and Minos, in compliance with certain oracles, shut him up and guarded him in a Labyrinth near to his palace. As the unnatural offspring of a woman and a beast, the Minotaur had no natural source of nourishment and thus devoured humans for sustenance. In the meantime, the Athenians killed Minos’ son, so he waged war on Athens, won, and forced on them a tribute of seven young men and seven maidens every few years to feed the Minotaur. Here is where Theseus enters the story. The daughter of the King of Athens, Ariadne, was selected to sent to Minos, and upon hearing these news Theseus volunteered to come along and slay the monster. Ariadne gave him a ball of thread, allowing him to retrace his path, and thus armed Theseus entered the labyrinth and with his bare hands (or maybe a hidden AK-47) killed the Minotaur, rescued Ariadne and the others, and lived happily ever after.

Alas, although the remains of the palace of Knossos were discovered, there is no archaeologic evidence for the existence of the Labyrinth. Knossos was excavated by Sir Arthur Evans, the Director of the Oxford Museum in the early 1900’s. He was a hot shot, but was also necio como Ronnie, so he reconstructed the palace with lots of concrete to suit his pre-conceptions, and by now the line between reconstruction and original has become blurred. One thing to say for Evans, though, is that he was a meticulous excavator, so the richness of well-documented artifacts recovered from Knossos is absolutely amazing.

Not that you would know it from the site itself, but I followed up with a visit to the Archaeological Museum of Heraklion, which is where the Minoan artifacts are in display. Half of the museum was closed due to Covid (sadly, the part with the frescos), but the pottery, metal work, and stonework that was on display left me speechless. The Minoan civilization starts in the prehistory around 3500 BC, with the complex urban civilization beginning around 2000 BC, and then declining from c. 1450 BC (because of the eruption of Santorini, which triggered a devastating tsunami that hit all ports of the Mediterranean?), until it ended around 1100 BC, during the early Greek Dark Ages. In its zenith, from 2000 BC to 1500 BC, it produced beautiful pieces of art, it boasted two as-yet-undeciphered alphabets, and it dominated maritime commerce all over the eastern Mediterranean.

On the happy note of a tsunami wiping out the Minoan civilization I went to bed.

Mon Dieu! Il pleut des cordes la dehors!

The following day, December 29, I woke up at 7:05 am listening to the crashing rain, and was pondering about the plans for the day when, at 7:08 am, my bed was rocked by a mild earthquake. Well, this is Greece after all, at a complex junction where Africa is squeezing the eastern Mediterranean like a nutcracker. I checked the USGS website and indeed, at 5.7 quake with epicenter just off the south coast of Crete (Heraklion is on the north coast, maybe 40 km due north of the epicenter). Fun!

Today I took the bus to the east end of the island, with the idea of admiring the landscape all the way there and back. Crete is a very beautiful island, and the small towns along the shore are eager and ready to receive tourists. Too bad I am the only tourists now that winter has arrived. I half-heartedly did my job as a geologist and glanced to the mountains that from the core of the island, but I could not get very excited looking at thick sequences of limestones. Cretaceous, I assumed … Crete > Cretaceous? Wrong! The Cretaceous takes its name for the French word for “chalk”, and was defined by French geologists in France. So what are the rocks in Crete? Well, they look like limestones, and go from being flat and undisturbed to being really screwed up. And then we got to the east end of the island and I saw … tectonic slivers of serpentinite and pillow lavas. An ophiolite, which to my Californian mind says subduction zone. Fortunately I could always ask Google, which I did, only to find out that Cretan geology is a real mess! The geologic map looks like it was drawn by Pablo Picasso at the height of his cubist years, and the stratigraphic column looks like someone stacked every odd book they could get their hands on. To European geologists Crete is nothing but the piling up of one nappe after another (presumably by gravitational spreading), with rocks ranging in age from Lower Paleozoic to the Paleogene (yes, I realize that there has to be some Cretaceous somewhere in there). For a California geologist it looks more like an accretionary wedge, where one exotic terrane was underthrusted beneath another as they got caught in a migrating subduction zone. I am glad I am not a Cretan geologist!