As we drive across the Yucatán peninsula time seems to pass in an almost surrealistic manner. The low flat expanses of jungle defy normal time and space parameters. The amount of miles covered, the time it takes, the narrow roads, the people, and even the thatched roof domed houses all blend together to create a special and unique ambiance. My own somewhat vague conceptions about life and its meaning must now come to grips with this 'lack of Americanism' in the vast Yucatán peninsula. The jungle is king here, it controls everything, it is everything, and it grows constantly. The abundance of vegetation is overwhelming, left unchecked it has swallowed up entire civilizations, even here on the highway it seems as if only the traffic itself keeps the jungle at bay. My mind wanders freely in this new reality, seemingly attached to nothing. The basic values and concepts of life based on my upbringing are not forgotten nor abandoned, they are simply put on hold so that I may indulge these new and different stimuli. I am able to make observations and just store them away for future perusal without passing judgments. Intellectually, it is very relaxing.

During one such Yucatán afternoon, driving north and somewhat west across the state of Campeche with Joseph at the wheel, we suddenly turn off the main highway onto a dirt road heading directly into the jungle, granted, it's a very good dirt road, almost gravel, but still . . . Ed and I instantly come to attention, where are we going? What's up?, etc., etc. Joseph informs us that he wants to see what is down this road, it could be somewhere really nice, let's do some exploring. Ed and I snivel and whine a bit, somewhat unsure of the wisdom of heading into the jungle. Joseph argues that if we don't take some chances we're going to miss out on all the fun, have we come this far to not do it? We agree, sort of, but right here? Right now? Can't we do this later? Joseph continues to argue his point by asking if we think they shoot poison darts at white people and throw them into great stewing pots. As we start to acquiesce, he finishes us off with, "C'mon, let's just look, we can always turn back around, we have plenty of gas." He is right and we all have a good laugh, the 'one for all, all for one' attitude prevails and we continue on, into the jungle. I love traveling with Joseph.

We pass numerous small villages, all populated with little round stick houses having droopy, oval shaped, thatched roofs. All in all, they look very practical, very functional, and somewhat primitive. Later in the afternoon, we are pleasantly surprised to find a large enough little 'town' to have a hotel. Very simple, but still 30 pesos a man, however, this time as we inspect the room we discover what appear to be hamaca supports in the walls. We inquire, we are right, they are hamaca hooks, if we use them, and supply our own towels, the price is only five pesos per man. We agree to the hamaca rate, we are absolutely delighted to be paying only forty cents each for hotel accommodations, we have t-shirts to serve as towels. We are far from the beach and in the middle of the jungle, but even so, we feel fairly comfortable. This is the first place any of us have ever been where we think that we are the first tourists to ever come here, we actually wonder if we might be the first "non-Mexicans" ever to be seen by some of these people.

After getting settled into our hotel room, showers, shaves, etc., we think that dinner might be in order. We inquire at the desk where there might be a place to get a good meal, we, of course, are thinking in terms of a restaurant. But, it seems in this "town," although there is a hotel, there is no restaurant. Meals are served to visitors in private homes. As the desk man explains this, of course in Spanish, we do not fully realize what he has said. We take his directions and set off to find our dinner, still thinking we are going to a restaurant. The directions lead us to someone's house. It is then that we realize the full extent and meaning of the hotel man's explanation. We knock at the door and are invited in by the man of the house.

The living room has a table right in the center. It has been converted into a one table restaurant. The hospitality is so genuine it overcomes our self consciousness as we are seated at the table. They bring some little chiles and some chips as snacks. They offer drinks, we select sodas, orange Fantas. There are little tapestries and pictures on the walls, and on one wall is a crucifix with a small alter below, there are also shelves containing various knick-knacks. Two children, about three or four, are shyly peeking around the corner from another room, looking at us. We find ourselves having dinner right in the middle of someone's living room, well . . . when in Rome.

Soon, a woman and her teen-aged daughter come into the room bringing food. They very methodically and neatly set it on the table before us. It is a dish that we've not had before, meat enchiladas of some type, very tasty, at first I think pork, but then I remember where we are, maybe venison, maybe . . . and I just leave it at that, it tastes good, that's enough. Served along with the 'meat' enchiladas are black beans, rice, a little tiny salad, and all the handmade corn tortillas we could eat. During the course of the meal, the Sr. returns, bringing with him a rather large chile pepper, it looks somewhat like an ortega. He put it on a little napkin next to Joseph, oddly enough, one bite has already been taken out of it. Joseph looked at it, then to the Sr., he (Joseph) picked up the chile, took a bite, then a bite of food. After just a moment or two, beads of sweat appear on his brow; now a tear from each eye forms, simultaneously, they run down his cheeks. An almost undetectable wisp of smoke emanates from each ear, Ed and I stare in amazement as he puts the chile down and in a weak, thin, very strained, voice says,

"Pretty damn hot." The Sr. looks to me, but I knew that if Joseph couldn't eat it, I sure as hell couldn't, I thank him but decline the chile, Ed does the same. The Sr. proudly picked up the chile, now with two bites taken out, smiled, and left the room. Joseph later told us it was, by far, the hottest chile he had ever tasted, bar none. We finished eating, paid for the meal, thanked them and headed back to our hotel, all agreeing that it had been a very good and very memorable meal. Joseph added that he would never forget that chile, either.

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Copyright 1996 by R.P. Folsom. All rights reserved.