The next day we were on our way, the Caddie running reasonably well, however, the vapor locking problem is starting to become somewhat inconvenient, if not downright bothersome. We stalled out three times that day and had to wait about ten minutes each time before we could restart and continue. The exhaust leak seemed a bit louder as well, she still was running strong, but was definitely starting to show signs of wear and tear. We made plans to get some maintenance at first opportunity. Meanwhile, we continue driving until arriving at a real town, Balancán.

Balancán sits on the banks of the Rio Usumacinta and appears to be quite prosperous. For those geographically inclined, Balancán, although not on most maps, (ninety-one degrees west and just a little south of the eighteenth parallel) is located approximately forty miles due west of the Guatemalan border at it’s northwesterly point and eighty miles due south of the Isla Del Carmen. Personally, I found Balancán to be the epitome of perfection in a Mexican town. It’s soft pastel multicolored general appearance and architecture are simple and traditional, not especially beautiful or outstanding in any definitive manner, but its orderly, clean, neat streets, buildings, air, and general atmosphere lend an aura and feel of peacefulness and calm that cleanse the mind and spirit, leaving an attitude which creates a feeling of good will toward everything and everyone. This feeling is magnified as one gradually realizes that, indeed, this is the real feel of the town and everyone in it. Perhaps the majestic beauty and sheer size of the Rio Usumacinta as it flows slowly and silently through the jungle greenery, helps create the feeling of continuity, perpetual oneness, and purpose that emanate from the town and its people. It seems to be a place which has ‘bottled’ time.

Its rich heritage of ranching is personified by the vaqueros and the beautiful horses on which they still ride, a tradition which survives and reflects a lifestyle and value system of years gone by. The local arena, of modest yet ample size, with its bleachers and colorful signs, testifies to Sunday afternoons of rodeo riding and bull fighting. The people seem humble and proud and probably care not a whit for world politics, yet are intensely patriotic and loving of Mexico. To me, a microcosm of Mexican perfection.

Arriving about one thirty in the afternoon, we find and check into the local hotel, once again finding and utilizing the hamaca hooks, enjoying the five peso (forty cents) economy rates, this time it even includes the towels. We will spend three days in Balancán resting and relaxing, we are happy to be indoors at night, we enjoyed the camping at Tulum, but enough is enough, hotel life is nice as well. We make inquiries as to the possibilities of getting our laundry done, we are out of clean clothes after our camping odyssey. We are told by the hotel staff of a woman who does laundry and are given directions to her house on the ‘outskirts’ of town. I am selected to take the laundry to her house and I set off, duffel over my shoulder, looking at the crude map given to us by one of the hotel maids. The distance is not great but the path takes me right into the jungle, it is a good path, but none the less only a path. I huff and puff my way through the jungle in the heat of the day until I find the laundry lady’s home. Her home is very humble, simple, and primitive, once again I seem to have crossed a time line. The house is of the thatched roof dome type. Inside is a hard dirt floor swept free of any loose sand or other debris, and very clean. Although there is a crude fence around the immediate yard and ‘milpita,’ the animals are allowed right into the house, a pig and three chickens are currently inside as I approach. I wonder if I have the right place. I don’t see a washing machine, tubs, or laundry facilities of any kind, and along with the absence of running water there also is no electricity. There is however, a child of about five hanging onto the back of her mothers long skirt, and two younger naked children playing on the floor at her feet. The señora puts my mind at ease, I do have the right place, she will take the laundry to the river and do it along with her family laundry. She has opened the duffel and is going through the laundry doing an inventory, she asks something I don’t quite understand, I say yes, it seems right at the time. I learn later that she has asked me if I want the clothes ironed after washing. She tells me that everything will be ready the next afternoon or possibly the day after. I head back through the jungle toward town hoping that everything will turn out okay.

Meanwhile, Joseph has taken the Caddie to the local ‘auto salon’ for a good cleaning inside and out, it will take a day or two so we are now on foot, but not to worry, we are not going any great distances, walking will be just fine. The local people are very polite and very shy, we find ourselves as something of a curiosity to them. Small children peer from around corners as we eat in restaurants, teenagers stare and when we look in their direction they self-consciously look away, their hands to their mouths as they try to hide their giggles. We have fun shopping, the shoe store is the most fun. The clerks all seem to be young women, and all very pretty, we all pretend that we might buy some shoes which gives us a chance to talk (and flirt) with these pretty señoritas , we enjoy it and they enjoy it as well, it is all very innocent fun.

On the second afternoon I trek back into the jungle, expecting to find our laundry done and ready to go. Not exactly, the laundry lady explains that it will take another day, I should come back mañana. I turn and make the return walk to town arriving with a great thirst, it has been a hot and dusty voyage, my throat is parched. Luckily for me, Ed and Joseph are thirsty as well, we head for a cantina with a large sign, ‘Cantina Del Viento.’ The late afternoon heat has brought not only ourselves to the huge cantina, which is actually a large hall, but, seemingly, a hundred working men as well. The place is nearly full of working men wearing white clothing and great sombreros, which, along with a sprinkling of vaqueros, gives the appearance of a Pancho Villa army convention, it’s another time warp. We find a table and sit down. A woman resembling a young Katy Jurado wearing an off the shoulders blouse which teases the eye by revealing an enticing amount of cleavage, comes immediately to the table. Although we are intimidated to the maximum by this dark haired, dark eyed beauty, we manage to order three cervezas. She quickly returns with our beers and we sit back to enjoy the cool refreshments and the exciting atmosphere of the cantina.

We feel as though we are in another world (in fact, we are) and the atmosphere of cigarette and cigar smoke coupled with the hubbub of quiet baritone Spanish voices transports us to the corners of our imagination. I half expect to see Benito Juarez, Emiliano Zapata, or Pancho Villa, come in at any moment, call a meeting to order and organize a great revolution utilizing a brilliant and moving heartfelt oratory. We order another round, then another, the feeling grows, after the third round we indeed are back at the turn of the century, we feel elated. Now the waitress comes to the table bringing with her an unordered round of beers, the caps still on the bottles. She explains that the "señores" at that table, and she gestures toward the table three tables away, are offering to buy us a round. As she gestures, they raise their drinks in an encouraging toast, we smile and accept with raised, drink filled hands of our own. She opens the bottles and with a very warm, flirtatious smile, leaves the table. We continue drinking our beers, we finish them and start on the new ones just setting there opened and ready, we are having some fun now. We notice that we are getting quite a bit of attention, after all, probably not that many "gringos" come into this cantina to sit and drink. As our complimentary beers dwindle we motion to our waitress for another round and as she brings them we request that she take a round over to the table that bought us a round. We notice that she has yet to charge us anything, nor has she taken any empty bottles away, and the table is getting crowded with empties. As she brings the round to our friends table, they accept with raised arms and a loud "muchas gracias," we smile and motion for them to join us at our table, and with broad smiles, they do. We introduce ourselves to one another and the now six of us begin earnest conversations about the world, Mexico, the USA, and each other. More beers are brought to the table, we drink and laugh, all the time talking Spanish, other tables seem to be brought in just a little bit closer, we are really having fun now. The language barrier is minimum, our limited Spanish is embellished by the use of hand gestures, facial expressions and universal sign language, we have no trouble making ourselves understood. More cervezas, now the table is so full of empties that our buxom waitress begins to put them on the floor, lining the wall with them, as she does she exposes quite a bit of cleavage. In bending over she manages to let a bit of leg show as well, the conversation lags as all try to get in a discreet peek, she notices and gives us a very flirtatious smile, then laughs as she returns to the bar. All the men adopt the look that men do in circumstances like these, sort of ‘we’re all thinking the same thing so no one needs to say anything.’ We continue the merriment through the late afternoon, all having a perfectly great time, but after numerous trips to the escuchow and noticing that the light is turning to dusk, we decide to call it an evening and we call for ‘la cuenta,’ (the check.) There are probably a hundred empties piled up on and around the table, as well as lining the wall behind us. It becomes necessary to order another round just to pass the time while our by now ‘somewhat tired of us’ waitress counts them all up. We finish our beers and she brings the final tally. She has put all the beers on one check, this presents a small problem as the check is placed in a position on the table right between Joseph and me. Joseph reads my mind as he asks, somewhat under his breath, in English, "does this mean the whole bash is on us?" I, somewhat nervous, reply, "I think so." Joseph, "Well Mr. Spanish, get us out of this one." He smiles, leaving the whole damn thing up to me. I glance down at ‘la cuenta,’ it reads 750 pesos, Geez, that’s sixty bucks. I look at Joseph, he and Ed both smile, I really don’t know what the protocol is here, are we responsible for the whole thing because we invited them to our table? Many others have joined us during the course of the festivities, many have ordered rounds be brought, I am stuck for the proper action. If I don’t do something soon however, it will be time for another round, further complicating the situation. Finally, I summon the courage, I take the check and hold it up for all to watch as I squint my eyes looking to the bottom line, I open my eyes wide in amazement, then slowly I reach into my pocket and bring out my mini-wad of pesos. All eyes are upon me and my wad as I count out three hundred fifty pesos and place them on the table, calling out in hopefully a humble, yet respectfully authoritative voice, "Ayudanos, por favor, todos que tomaran, si pueden, pague un poquito." (Help us, please, all that drank, if you can, pay a little.) With that, I put down another fifty pesos next to the three fifty, proclaiming "para la señorita," with that went up a great call in unanimous agreement, and many added money to the piles until ‘la cuenta’ was satisfied and the ‘propino’ (tip) grew as well. We spent another five minutes, maybe ten, saying goodbye to our new friends and then headed back to our hotel engulfed in a great cerveza fog, where, after one final drink in the hotel bar to recap what had transpired, we ‘retired’ for the night.

The next morning found us with fat heads and a case of the slows, we slept until nine-thirty, unusual for us, we were usually up and gone by seven or so. By the time we all cleared the showers and staggered out for breakfast it was ten-thirty. During breakfast we concluded that Balancán was finished for us, it was time to move on down the road. I was sent to retrieve the laundry, Joseph and Ed would get the Caddie back from the ‘car salon.’

I made the long walk to the laundry lady’s house only to find that the laundry was still not ready. I asked when it might be ready and the señora appeared to be just a little nervous, she invited me out to the back to see for myself. There was a small problem ironing the clothes, immediately I realized that I should not have agreed so hastily to have them ironed at the beginning. She was ironing everything, underwear, socks, tee-shirts, handkerchiefs, everything. She did this chore using a primitive iron which she placed in a fire, then ironed with as long as it remained hot enough, a painstaking job to say the least. As if it wasn’t hot enough without standing right next to a blazing fire, I felt guilty for not taking the time originally to find out what she meant by ‘emplanchar,’ I could have saved her some work and us some time. But, too late now, she was almost finished, she was struggling with the heavy denim of the Levi’s and implored me to return this afternoon when she promised they would be ready, I agreed and made the long walk back to town. I found Joseph and Ed at the car salon schmoozing and talking with the owner of the salon as his ‘muchachos’ put the final touches on the Caddie. They indeed had done a marvelous job, they had never worked on a Cadillac before and wanted very much to do it justice, the owner explained why. It seems (at least in ‘74) that cars larger than mid-size, Fords, Chevys, Dodges, etc., were not permitted in Mexico outside of the Federal District which is in Mexico City, except when driven by tourists, such as ourselves. Our car was very impressive even if it was twelve years old. By the time we paid for the car and concluded the conversation, the laundry should be ready. This time we drove and were able to almost get to the laundry lady’s house. We would only have to walk the last half-mile. We were happy to find the laundry all ready to go, we paid and carried the laundry, folded to perfection, back to the car. We then returned to the hotel to put on clean clothes and check out. Although it was hot, we all decided to wear our Levi’s anyway because they were so neatly ironed and fresh looking, we agreed that this was the cleanest they had ever been, the woman was a marvel at laundry, maybe it was the fresh river water, or maybe allowing them to hang dry in the tropical sun, but whatever it was we loved it and couldn’t wait to wear them. We pulled out of Balancán and headed out on the local road to connect with Mexico 186, where we would make Palenque our next destination.

As we drove, we talked and laughed about our cantina time in Balancán and the small town where we ate the meal with the chile pepper, we didn’t remember the name of the ‘town,’ we didn’t even remember if it had one. We fire up a big joint and continue through the jungle toward Palenque, feeling pretty much on top of the world. The pot we bought from the hippies at Tulum is very strong, just a few hits and we are very loaded, so much so that we have adopted a ‘smoking and driving’ rule. Our driving and seating rotation is as follows; drive for two hours, then go to the back seat, front seat right goes to the wheel and the back seat guy goes to the shotgun (navigators) seat. This rotation just evolved naturally, on mountain roads the ‘navigator’ actually helps drive by looking far ahead to see when it is safe to pass, the driver must watch the immediate curves, livestock, and other things on the highway at a much closer interval, the back seat guy can then nap, read, or whatever. The navigator and the driver do not smoke pot, only the guy in the back seat may smoke, and then only over roads that don’t require any navigation. However, the driver and navigator are permitted to drink beer, go figure, it was 1974. These rules are loose, and on flat straight jungle roads where there is little driving skill required, we all smoke pot and drink beer. I only mention this at all to assure that although we are insane to a healthy degree, we are not completely insane, nor do we have a death wish, and in the interest of not being redundant, we shall not discuss it again. I do notice that after smoking some pot my legs seem a bit warm, kind of an itchy, prickly heat feeling. I’ve never had this reaction to pot before, it’s kind of odd and not very comfortable at all, maybe it will pass. We continue talking and laughing, we stop at a little store for some beers, pile back into the car and set off again, my legs are still warm and now my butt is starting to heat up as well, I wonder if I have caught some kind of bug or something. In the course of the conversation I notice that the other guys are getting a little. . . . . for lack of a better term, up tight, the conversation has slowed and everyone seems out of sorts. Just as I see Ed fidgeting around in the back seat very uncomfortably, Joseph nails the whole thing down with a very animated and aggravated,

"Jesus, do you think she used enough f---ing lye!!!? I feel like Jerry Lee Lewis." We all acknowledge the heating up and general discomfort to our legs and ‘groin area’. We pull over to the side of the road, splash all of our drinking water over our privates and change back into our dirty clothes. I am very relieved to find that there is nothing wrong with me, it’s the damn clothing. We reason that in her sincere effort to get our clothes clean, coupled with her unfamiliarity with American denim, our laundry lady overdid the lye a little and it didn’t rinse out completely in the river, now we know why it took three days to do our laundry. I would like to say that we all had a good laugh over this, but that would be untrue. We did, however, find a lavandería where we took the time to run our clothes through the rinse cycle and the drier which alleviated the problem, but of course they became unironed. The next day we found our legs, buttocks, and ‘groin area’ somewhat pink, and a little sensitive. After a day or two we recovered from the inconvenience and put it off to ‘things that happen traveling.’

MEXICO CHRONICLES ( Return to Contents)
Copyright 1996 by R.P. Folsom. All rights reserved