There is a phrase in Mexico, "From Tijuana to Chetumal." It means from "one extreme to the other." Tijuana touches San Diego. It's north and west and on the Pacific Ocean. Chetumal abuts Belize. It's south and east and on the Atlantic side of Mexico.

I've heard: "You can get anywhere in Mexico by bus. Mexico has 800 bus companies and are the finest get-to-where-you're-going system in the world."

Crossing Mexico by bus sounded like an adventure, and taking the bus, stopping in places I've never heard of, could make me feel like a pioneer, a discoverer. I pulled out a large map of Mexico and looked it over. I'd avoid resorts and beaches. I wanted to see the heart of Mexico, the interior. I'd descend into the Copper Canyon, three times the size of the Grand Canyon, and cross deserts. I'd follow the mountainous Silver Trail, routes established by the Spanish and seek out early missions founded by Junipero Serra and stay in colonial towns. The route would take me through green jungles and past romantic waterfalls. I'd visit indigenous villages and I'd climb Mayan pyramids.

The destination would be the journey itself. The bus would give me a feel for Mexico's topography, the roads, the travel time and the distance. I would travel with Mexicans and get a sense of culture and history.

From Tijuana to Chetumal, it's about 3000 miles and with my meandering route it would be longer. I decided to take the trip in stages. The first stage would be from Tijuana to Zacatecas. I'd travel light and buy a shirt or sweater or socks, whatever I needed, along the way.

I picked up a felt-tipped pen and drew a heavy black line on my AAA map from Tijuana to Zacatecas. For practical value, it could have been a river in the Congo. I was not familiar with the route, nor did I know where I'd spend the nights.

I added up the miles for this first stage on the map. There were 1600 miles of desert and mountains, with the Copper Canyon in between Tijuana and Zacatecas. There were switchback canyon roads, some gravel and dirt, and roads that were not wide enough for two cars to pass, and I wanted to do it all by bus.

I didn't look at the bus schedules. I was told there were buses, and they would do the job, so like Zorba said, "Who the hell am I to choose?" My plan: start at the Tijuana bus depot, look for a bus that's headed east, along the general route traced on my map, select a ride to a town, hopefully not more that 4 hours away, maybe 6 if pressed, get off, see where I've landed, stay the night, add a day if it's interesting, then repeat the process, over and again, until I reached Zacatecas, or like Ambrose Bierce, went missing.

The Route: Day-by-day, town-by-town, outline:

• 1 Tijuana-Mexicali
• 2 Mexicali-Rio Colorado-Sonoyta-Santa Ana
• 3 Santa Ana-Hermosillo
• 4 Side trip to Kino Bay
• 5 Hermosillo-Yecora- Yecora-San Pedro-Creel
• 6 Creel: Tour
• 7 Creel: Tour
• 8 Creel-Batopilas
• 9 Batopilas: Tour
• 10 Batopilas-Junction- Guachochi
• 11 Guachochi-Parral
• 12 Parral Tour
• 13 Parral-Durango-Zacatecas
• 14 Zacatecas-San Luis Potosi
• 15 San Luis Potosi-Rio Verde
• 16 Rio Verde-Xilitla-Mission Corrido: Conca, Jalpan, Landa de Matamoros, Tilco, Tancoyol
• 17 Xilitla-Zacualtipan
• 18 Zacualtipan-Pachuca
• 19 Pachuca-Tlaxcala
• 20 Tlaxcala-Puebla
• 21 Cordoba
• 22 Coatzacoalcos
• 23 Tuxtla Gutierrez
• 24 Sumidero Canyon
• 25 San Cristobal de Las Casas
• 26 San Critobal de Las Casa, Chamula
• 27 Agua Azul, Misol-Ha, Palenque
• 28 Yaxchilpan and Bonapak
• 29 Campeche
• 30 Campeche International Festival
• 31 Edzna
• 32 Hacienda Uayamon
• 33 Camino Real, Uxmal, Franciscan Missions
• 34 Merida
• 35 Chichen Itza, Valladolid
• 36 Chetumal
• 37 Bacalar, Tulum, Playa del Carmen
• 38 Cancun Airport

Expenses: Transportation, bus, taxis, and vans:... $595
Hotels: .......................................... ....................1,296
Meals: .................................................................. 784
Miscellaneous, fees, entrances ...............................338
Total:........................................... ....................$3,013
Average cost per day: ....................... ...........................$ 79.29

Day One: Crossing the Border, The Tijuana Terminal

My friend Victor, who lives in San Diego, worked a half-day then picked me up and drove me to the U.S.- Mexican border. At the border, I found Mexico barricaded by security fences. I entered a multilevel cage, walked up and over and around and down, showed my passport, paid $21 for a Tourist Visa and finally walked through a turnstile to the largest organized army of yellow cabs I'd ever seen.

I was told that I could walk a couple blocks and catch a local bus to the Central Bus Terminal for $1, but I was immediately grabbed by the General of the Yellow Army who told me that a taxi could take me to the Terminal, about 6 miles away, for $10. I agreed and he directed me to the next available driver and off I went. I figured that at worst I was out 9 bucks, but I saved time.

It was 3 p.m. when I arrived at the Tijuana Central Bus Terminal. Most of the counters were vacant. There were no lines. Friendly clerks were happy to advise me about schedules and explain the difference among bus classes: Executive, First, Second.

I looked at my map, the portion that gives times and distances. I had to choose between a 3-hour or 6-hour trip, to Mexicali in 3 or further along to Sonoyta in 6. Three seemed about right and I'd never visited Mexicali.

I chose Península Lines, Executive Class.

The experience was pure luxury. The Península bus line provided a lounge with coffee, sofa chairs, and two free computers which were occupied, one guy just playing games. At 3:30 p.m. a smartly dressed hostess in a blue uniform called our group and offered us refreshments, water, beer, or soda as we boarded.

There were 8 rows of 3 across seating, 24 seats. An aisle split the seating into two on the left and one on the right. Each seat was ample enough for the comfort of a Sumo wrestler. All seats reclined and there were 4 TVs with drop down screens to entertain the riders. In the rear there was a telephone, a bathroom and a sink.

Ironic I thought, "Bus comfort is like what the airlines used to offer, and today's air passenger is treated to the scrunched in seating that once was the bus."

I felt embedded for the first stage of my bus journey across Mexico. The driver was the Captain. I asked if I could sit in the first row, which was vacant. He told me to sit in my assigned seat. This I learned was not unusual. The driver often used the first row as his storage locker. He was the authority. He was in charge and if he wanted the curtains drawn, you won't see daylight.

The driver, well groomed, uniformed, professional, greeted us, closed the door, backed up the bus, then pulled out of the terminal and followed a sign pointed to Mexicali. He plugged in a movie staring Gene Hackman and Dustin Hoffman. The movie opened with whirlwind action and violence. Then the manufacturer of the guns used in the violence was put on trial. It was a polemic film with two great actors.

I'd have preferred to forgo the movie and just watch the scenery as we drove through the Desert Mountains. I peeked out between the curtains. The hillside was dotted with wrecked cars. The bus driver shifted into a low gear and we climbed higher into the mountains along a cliff route. I saw at least 30 derelict cars that had gone over the side. I suspected these cars were stripped and dumped, not accidents. There weren't any roadside crosses.

I chatted across the aisle with Josue, a young man, recently married. He lived with his wife in Mexicali but had just started 3 months of training for a management position with Carl's Jr. in Tijuana. He graduated from a university in Ensenada and raved about how beautiful it was. He mentioned that Margarita Thompson invented the Margarita at the Hotel Rivera in Ensenada. I had always assumed that the name Margarita, which means Daisy in English, was due to the white salt on the rim of the glass that represented symbolic Daisy petals.

Península pulled into Mexicali at 5:45 p.m., a little ahead of schedule.

In the terminal, not quite so new as the gleaming Tijuana depot, I looked over the schedules posted behind the counters for the next day. There were frequent departures. There was no need to make a reservation. I imagined I'd get an early start.

I took a cab to town and asked for "La plaza central." That confused the driver, and me too. "Which center?" my driver asked. Always, in Mexico there is a central plaza. It's surrounded by the church and the City Hall, standard city planning. But it wasn't in Mexicali.

So with confusion on both sides, the cab driver headed for the Old Town Center and recommended Hotel Del Norte, once favored by Mexican Presidents (as noted in photographs in the lobby). But the last Presidential visit was 1965.

The single room rate was 485 pesos, about $45. I asked for a discount, my standard routine, but all I received was a pleasant "No." I checked out the room after inquiring about "air conditioning." The clerk, Suyey, part Japanese on grandma's side, assured me that it was air-conditioned. I even asked, "Does that mean refrigeration?" "Sí, sí, hay refrigeración," she said.

In Mexico air-conditioning can mean an open window in a ventilation shaft. In my room, I put my hand up in front of the air duct and there was circulation, but I felt no cool comfort. "It's probably set at 78," I thought. I hoped it wouldn't be too hot. If I kept asking, they'd insist it was cool. Electricity is expensive and cool is relative.

It was still light out and I took a walk. Next door was a huge modern, concrete building. It looked like a first-class shopping mall. "What's that?" I asked a lady waiting for the red light to turn green. "Immigration," she said. I was back at the border. "Strange," I thought, "even when I get there, I don't know where I am."

Two blocks east I found Chapultepec Park filled with tents displaying crafts and brightly painted Alejibres, phantasmagorical figures from Oaxaca, on exhibit and for sale. I meandered around the old section populated with Chinese restaurants on every block. The Chinese were among the first residents of Mexicali, which was founded in 1903. They came as farmers and the proverbial ditch diggers and became businessmen. There was a pagoda with a plaque stating that Nanking and Mexicali were sister cities.

The cathedral, which was situated mid-block, was the plainest Catholic Church I'd seen in a long while. It was dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe. With walls as barren as an underground garage it seemed protestant, but there were stained glass windows depicting disciples and saints that broke the severity.

By 11 p.m., though I was ready for bed, my neighbors in the adjacent room were lively. Their conversation piped in through the ventilation duct only added to the hot air. I read for a half hour, then put a pillow over my head and went to sleep.

I had no real complaint. The room was adequate, not overly expensive, $45, and tastefully decorated in white with pink trim around the baseboards, doors and window. The shower was a power tool, like a finger massage. The plumbing at Hotel Del Norte was without water restrictors and delivered fire hose pressure.

Expenses: Tourist Visa $21, hotel $45, bus $20, taxis $15, meal $7. Total: $108.

The Adventure Begins: Days 1-5. Tijuana, Mexicali, San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonoyta, Santa Ana, Hermosillo, Yecora, San Pedro, Creel

Day 2 Part 1: The End Justified the Day

It was a perfect day.... the end justified the means, or All's Well That Ended Well.

I slept for about 6 hours, climbed out of bed and noticed the label on my mattress said Marriott. Pre-owned Marriott mattresses ended up at Hotel Del Norte, Mexicali.

I was up before 7 a.m. Breakfast: huevos rancheros, coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice served in a king sized goblet.

After breakfast I took a walk around the old town. It was commonly referred to as Chinesca. That's Mexicali for Chinatown. Signs were written in Chinese and Spanish. Restaurant Mexicali Rose served Comida China (Chinese Food). There were Chinese pharmacies, restaurants, shops, herbal medicines, and a China Association founded in 1919.

I asked a man on the street in front of a pharmacy about the China connection. He told me the local history: poor Cantonese immigrants sought land and opportunity in Mexico. He said the first Chinese came as canal builders for the Colorado River Land Company. I told the man that railroads brought Chinese laborers to California and it was interesting to hear Mexicali's history.

He added "The Legend of the Caves." "It's claimed," he said, "that there were so many Chinese that they lived in underground caves and had to dig even larger caves to keep up with population growth. Then one day they broke their way out to the surface and appeared in Mexicali." The story sounded like the reverse of the tale told to kids, "If you dig a hole straight down, you'll dig a hole to China."

Then at 8:30 a.m. I turned a 1-hour trip into a 2-hour ride.

In the morning, on my walk, I had passed the ABC Bus Company downtown. So instead of taking a taxi back to the Central Terminal, I went over to ABC.

That's where the conversation got confused. The counter clerk was telling me they didn't have service to the Central Terminal, and I'd have to walk a few blocks to catch a city bus. At least that's what I thought. But just as I was about to follow his directions, a lady spoke up. She said with concern and kindness, "I'll show you where the Central is. It's only a few blocks from my stop."

She told me to buy the ticket and when she got off she'd point me in the right direction. Now I felt confused, but this is an adventure, and I had an escort.

I bought a ticket to San Luis Rio Colorado, which I thought was just the name of a neighborhood on the outer limits of Mexicali. But when the price was $3 instead of under a dollar, I should have asked a couple more questions.

What had happened was that since I was in the ABC station where you catch the bus to San Luis Rio Colorado, 40 miles from Mexicali, the lady assumed I was asking about SLRC's Central, not Mexicali's. I was on the bus and gawking out the window, stopping frequently, as I put the puzzle together. I sat across from Juana my escort and she told me that ABC takes 2 hours instead of 1 due to frequent stops.

So there I was on the "stop and pickup," but adventurous, bus to SLRC.

Juana lived in L.A. She came to the U.S. in 1983. She was a great-grandmother in her fifties. I asked, "What was your first job in L.A.?" "Packed pickles in a factory," she told me. Now she baby-sits. She's tried to learn English and memorized words. She said, "Grammar is difficult." I told her about my friend Don Beaver who had a similar problem in trying to learn Spanish.

Although I took the wrong bus, I was entertained. I looked over the outstretched city, stop by stop. There were vast islands of wrecked cars. "This must be auto dismantlers' heaven," I said to myself.

The bus stopped, a young college student boarded and sat in the row ahead of me. She was as slender and attractive as Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's." She had smooth, soft, mocha colored skin, narrow lips and nose. Her dark eyes were so bright that I recalled washing and waxing my grandpa's black Cadillac in the sun. Grandpa never owned a house, but always owned a luxury car. As the bus went around a curve sunlight struck her black hair, which she must have tint-rinsed. Her hair sparkled red in the sun. She was eager to study and promptly opened her text with a picture of B.F. Skinner. I asked her, "Are you studying psychology?" She was nice, but only smiled and said "Yes." B.F. Skinner was more interesting than an old gringo, even if I could be a good subject to psychoanalyze.

We neared the end of the 2-hour ride. Juana pointed out Rio Colorado. As the bus crossed the bridge we looked over the railing at the Rio Colorado. It was pure white sand, looking more like a beach than a river. We turned into the city, passed small, one-story bungalows, neatly cared for, gated and fenced, painted in whites, pinks, blues and aqua greens, and adorned with red bougainvilleas.

The bus pulled over and stopped on the main street. A car honked. No one paid attention. Juana picked up her shopping bag. I followed. We got off the bus in downtown San Luis Rio Colorado. That ended the first of my three bus trips for the day.

Day 2 Part 2: Victor Tornero, Boxer

Arriving in San Luis Rio Colorado, I thanked Juana, then followed her directions to the Central, walked about 6 blocks and checked in at the Central Bus station. Buses were frequent. One left every half hour. So far my belief that there's a convenient bus to everywhere in Mexico from everywhere in Mexico proved true.

I caught the Interestales bus for Sonoyta.

The long day was filled with desert views and videos on TV. The driver played two bad movies. A teenage fantasy romance about the trials of the U.S. President's daughter who yearned for a private social life, kind of an up-date to Roman Holiday without the class. It was followed by a poltergeist horror film that dragged on and on but pulled a laugh out of me for its special effects and terror excess. I felt great about people being scared to death.

As we entered Sonoyta there was a statue in the traffic circle where two highways met. It was dedicated to President Plutarco Calles. He founded the PRI political party that governed Mexico from the 1929 to 2000, until PAN's Vicente Fox broke PRI's grip and was elected President of Mexico.

General Calles defeated Pancho Villa at the battle of Agua Prieta. He was President of Mexico from 1924 to 1928, and was Mexico's strong man until his hand-picked successor Lazaro Cardenas became President, took control and put his own people in power.

Perhaps Calles was born or raised here, but Sonoyta was not really a city. It was a linear town stretched along two intersecting highways and offered nothing attractive except the monumental house on the hill that overlooked and overshadowed Calles' statue.

The house would stand out in any setting. I asked a fellow at a taco stand, "Who owns the house that looks like a hotel on the mountain?" He said, "That's Salcido." "How did he get so rich?" I asked. "Pemex, and money exchange and parts distribution and trucking."

I had vegetable soup and a beer for lunch at The Steakhouse. Still curious I asked the cashier about the Salcido Family. Mario Salcido was mayor of Sonoyta 1994-97 (could be the connection that got him the Pemex franchise, or visa versa). He built a business empire, died and his son was showing off the family wealth.

In an hour I had seen Sonoyta. I walked back to Bus Central in Sonoyta for the last leg of the day's trip. It was another 3 hours to Santa Ana where I spent the night at the Hotel Posada for $25 and working air conditioning.

During the day, the bus followed the Ruta de las Misiones, past Caborca and Altar. Along the main street in Altar, backpacks hung from every stall and storefront like bunches of grapes ready to harvest. Altar was the staging area for young men going north. From here, it was a desert trek and there was a history of tragedy.

A young man sat across the aisle from me on this last leg. His shoulders filled out a black T-shirt with a cartoon caricature figure on the front. Under the cartoon, printed in red, was the word Ramcid. We spoke and he introduced himself, Victor Tornero, a welterweight boxer on his way to his sister's wedding in Guanajuato. Victor was a friendly guy with a ready smile. It was hard to believe he was a guy that wanted to put you down and out. He trained in Phoenix. He wrote down, web site: www.tony @ box. He's had 12 amateur fights and 3 professional, won them all, most by knockouts. He enjoyed speaking about his victories. He surged with joy when he spoke about knocking out an opponent.

He was a good looking guy, reminded me of Oscar de la Hoya, such a handsome, unmarked face. When we stopped, I asked if I could take his picture in front of the bus to prove, when he's famous, that we bused through Sonora, Mexico together.

Victor stood up against the bus. He clutched his fists to his chest showing off the hammers that could strike an opponent and send him into unconsciousness.

It was dark when the bus pulled in to Santa Ana. I looked for a hotel. Victor continued on his way to his sister's wedding. He'd be traveling all night.

Hotel Posada was catty-corner from the terminal and I checked in. I took a walk to shake off the bus ride. An Internet Café was open, but I ate supper first and while I was eating the cyber café closed.

I walked down the long main street. Major businesses were truck stops and motels. At a rival's hotel, with a large lighted lobby, I saw a courtesy computer, email for guests. I asked the security guard's permission. He was kind and said I was welcome to check my email.

It really was a long day on the bus, but as I had cut the trip into three slices, it digested well.

I had looked over Hotel Posada before I took the room. All checked out: clean, neat, and attractive, if modest. There was a bathroom shelf for my toiletries and a non-sag mattress (nothing bends when it's on a cement slab). It was a quiet room, isolated, connected by a labyrinth of hallways. There was air conditioning and a reading lamp over the bed. But I never thought about the east-facing room, thin curtain and yellow glare from the morning's rising sun.

From 5-6 a.m. I slept with the pillow over my head.

Tomorrow I'll reach Hermosillo, a major city, and the last stop before I head for the Copper Canyon, if I can get there on the bus.

Expenses: Hotel $25, meals $20, buses $34, miscellaneous $2. Total: $81.

Day 3: Arrival in Hermosillo and a Surprise

Morning: Breakfast at Tito's:

I was Tito's first customer at 7 a.m. The restaurant looked new and I ordered without glancing at the menu. In Mexico, if they have it, the cook will make it. Someone will figure out a price. I ordered, "Mexican eggs (scrambled with chili, onion, diced tomatoes), orange juice, and coffee."

The cook brought out a jar of Nescafe, a spoon and hot water in a mug, and then returned to the kitchen. In a few minutes I was served a hot plate of scrambled eggs, corn tortillas, French fries, crisp lettuce-carrot salad, re-fried beans, a pint of fresh squeezed orange juice, tortilla chips with salsa and my coffee. My short order had gained in translation. I sampled everything, complimented the cook, "Muy rica, muy sabrosa," and paid the bill: 57 pesos ($5.25).

I bought a ticket from Santa Ana to Hermosillo 80 peso ($7.20), a short 2-hour ride.

From Tijuana to Sonoyta we had followed the U.S.-Mexican border, often looking over security fences. We stopped at a number of checkpoints and even exited the bus, removed suitcases and went through a luggage inspection.

I asked what they were looking for, as there were no dogs sniffing for drugs and no metal detectors for arms. A security officer told me, "Contraband merchandise that Mexicans bring home without paying taxes." This meant items purchased in the U.S. but made in China.

Bus Commentary:

Buses are comfortable and schedules convenient. You can pick a bus on this route, every half hour. But you won't get peace and quiet. Standard procedure is for the driver to plug in a movie video prefaced by a political advertisement for PAN. Then the driver sits down and turns on his own boom box.

If you're up front, you listen to a mix of music and movie. Driver's music can be corrido to rap. Films are action and teenage, but not bad for a bus ride. Dialogue is simple, good for practicing your Spanish; action keeps the story going even if you don't understand a word. I never go to current movies so I was really impressed by the special effects in the films. I saw three films: #1. President's Daughter, #2. A poltergeist horror film, and #3. Mission Impossible. They blew up everything in this kind of a re-make of 7 Days in May.

I also enjoyed the bus drive into the neighborhoods perched high on a seat where you could look over the houses and yards. However, the terminals have all moved out from the town-centers. So after spending $7 for a 2 hour ride from Santa Ana to Hermosillo, it cost me $4 for a taxi ride to get downtown.

Now, a Huge Surprise:

I've claimed and planned my trip on the assumption that, "You can get anywhere on a bus in Mexico." That proposition was tested.

Thinking ahead for Monday, before I left the Hermosillo's Central Bus Terminal, I went over to a counter and asked about a bus to Creel. I was shifted from one counter to another and finally I was told to go to Los Mochis and take the train. I said, "I'd like to take Highway 16," and I showed the route on the map. Four clerks told me that there was no bus through the Sierra Madre Occidental Mountains. I was stunned. I asked, "How do people get from town to town in the mountains?" There were a number of clearly indicated towns on the map. "Trucks, cars, donkeys," I was told in a voice that also said, "I've already told you, there are no buses."

Highway 16 connected Hermosillo to Chihuahua. So I asked, "Is there a bus to Chihuahua?" I figured that I could get off along the way and somehow get to Creel. "Sí," the gal said. "Take the bus to Agua Prieta and from Agua Prieta to Chihuahua." I was dumbfounded. That's like going from San Francisco to Los Angles via Reno, Nevada.

I began to wonder just how isolated was the Copper Canyon and if my plan was viable.

I left the Terminal with a numb mind. But across the street I saw a small office for another bus line. Hummm, maybe, "No" means "Not from our Terminal on our buses," or maybe they just hadn't had anyone inquire before. Going into the Sierra Madre is not your standard trip. Just ask Humphrey Bogart.

I crossed the street. I inquired and a lady, very eager to help, told me that Monday through Friday mornings Transportes Chaves would pick up bus passengers at 6:30 a.m. at the TBC Station and leave for Yecora, which on the map was about half way to Creel. "Are there buses in the Sierra?" I asked. "Yes," she assured me.

I was back in business.... if only half way.... There had to be a connection to the second half. I'd find out how when I arrived in Yecora.

Day 3 Part 2: Hermosillo Hotel Kino Fiesta

I had plans for Monday, 6:30 a.m. at the TBC Terminal, Transportes Chaves, but a weekend to spend in Hermosillo.

I settled into Hotel San Andres. I needed a walk after the morning bus ride and headed downtown just trying to get a sense of the general area and where my hotel was located. I looked for green spots, trees that would indicate parks in the distance and found the University, then took a left on a main street, passed VIPS Restaurant and signs indicating directions to the Cathedral, Museum and the Casa Cultura.

Kino Hotel, a block off the main street, intrigued me with its architecture, if not colonial, 19th century classic. I asked to see a room and took a tour of the hotel, remodeled many time over the years, and found attractive rooms with refrigerators and microwaves for about $50 a night.

To the left of the main lobby there was a Museum and a history of the hotel.

Antique phonographs, telephones, typewriters, and an electric fan, all in working order were on display. A card labeled each item noting the manufacturer and the year. The oldest phonograph, an 1896 Edison cylinder model, looked new. There was a range of models from 1896 to 1924. A platter replaced the cylinder. The changes seemed so slow, 28 years, still mechanical with a big horn sticking out like you see in the "His Master's Voice" trademark. There were telephones with cranks, both wall and table top models. The Remington typewriter 1936 model, looked like the one I hammered on in college.

But I thought of the rapid changes we've been in since the computer-internet age. I couldn't recall a computer product that's basically the same after 3 decades.

Then as I snooped around I found myself at the edge of inner courtyard. I stopped. It appeared there was a private party.

But I was to find out that it was more than a fiesta.

Day 3 Part 3: Fiesta, Dance and Quinceañera

In Mexico, the Quinceañera (Celebration of a girl's 15th Birthday) is a major event, similar to a Debutante Coming Out Ball, but it's not necessarily an upper class event. It's viewed as one of the greatest moments of a young lady's life, and one of the happiest. Wedding are milestones too, but some are regretted, a Quinceañera, never.

Families sacrifice for the celebration. Often, parents, like Soccer Moms, or Little League Dads, live the joy through their children.

I had never been to a Quinceañera, well until today.

When I walked into the courtyard of the Kino Hotel, tables and chairs, music and refreshments were set up and guests were milling around. There were 15 Maids of Honor wearing apricot colored ballroom gowns. I hesitated. It looked like a private party. A lady came over to welcome me, thinking that I was a guest. "No, I'm just a tourist, " I said. "But is this a wedding party?" The lady laughed and told me that it was a retirement party for Guadalupe Lopez who had worked for the Kino Hotel for 24 years.

A young man, Juan Carlos Jimenez joined us. He introduced himself. He was in charge of Tourist Packages for the hotel and invited me to join the celebration. "May I get you a drink?" he said. "A soft drink would be appreciated," I said. Juan Carlos led me to a circle of chairs, introduced me to friends, went for a coke, came back and we chatted.

Two impressive piñatas hung from the patio's rafters, a five-foot tall Tecate Beer Can, and an equally large Gran Dama (Great Lady), both made of papier-mâché.

The Maids of Honor were forming a line.

Juan Carlos explained, "Guadalupe never had a Quinceañera, her family could not afford it, so her friends on the hotel staff, decided to make her Retirement Party her Quinceañera."

Music began. It was The Triumphal March from Aida. Armando Bernard Noriega, owner of the hotel, gave his arm to Guadalupe, dressed in white, and led her in procession followed by her Damas de Honor. They circled the center fountain followed by the train of ladies.

Men got up from their chairs to offer an arm to each lady and joined in the procession. Smiles and joy and laughter filled the courtyard. Photographers jockeyed for position. When the procession stopped, Sr. Armando Bernard danced the first waltz with Guadalupe. One by one men cut in to dance with Guadalupe.

I couldn't imagine a more successful Quinceañera, or one with more respect and love for the celebrant.

Guadalupe Lopez, Armando, Armando Jr., and the Damas de Honor posed for a group portrait.

Then Guadalupe moved cross-court in front of the cake that was decorated in full color with Cinderella. Guadalupe stood for photos. I greeted her, spoke about her retirement and her plans, and thanked her for being her guest at her Quinceañera.

It was still afternoon and downtown Hermosillo was quiet. I walked past the museum to a central park with a statue of Jesús García. I knew his name from a corrido song, Máquina 501 (Locomotive 501). In 1907, Nacozari, a mining town in Sonora, was threatened with destruction when a dynamite-explosive laden train caught fire. Alone, Jesús took over Locomotive 501 and drove the burning train to the edge of town. He needed only a few more yards to reach safety himself when the dynamite exploded. Jesús lost his life, but saved the town and 100s of lives.

In his honor, the town was renamed, Nacozari de García.

I caught a taxi to the top of Cerro Campana (Bell-shaped Hill) that overlooked Hermosillo. The view is like looking over Phoenix from Pinnacle Peak.

Hermosillo Casa Cultura: Contemporeous Dance

The taxi took me back to my hotel. I rushed a quick meal, a cold beer and a bowl of tortilla soup. I dressed up, changing into my only long sleeve, dark blue shirt as I had another event to attend. I had seen a poster advertising, "La Lágrima, " a Contemporaneous Ballet Company at the Casa Cultura at 8 p.m.

At the Casa de Cultura, there was a long line to the ticket counter. It was a young, college-aged crowd. I purchased a single general admission ticket for 60 pesos ($5.50). I read the program and tried to understand the story. It wasn't clear to me. The best I could make out was a quote from the director, Adriana Castaños. "Dance is a social act."

My interpretation: There were 5 dancers and the dance was presented in 5 stages. In the twilight of light and shadow, the dance opened with 2 dancers, nude except for briefs. This couple, male and female, maintained a pose while a melodic piano played in the background. They appeared to be Adam and Eve, or perhaps Lucy and Neanderthal and as the danced progress I opted for the Darwinian interpretation.

The dance, like the music, began simply. One dance flowed into another and became more intricate. In part two, three male comic dancers replaced Adam and Eve. They appeared to be squirrels. The point seemed to be that the first dancers imitated the animal kingdom. The nudity gave way to moderate dress.

In the next set, two females and the three males discover each other. It was love, romance and boy meets girl. Both the dance and the music developed. From the original piano solo, the music and score became more complex. Music evolved, instruments were added, a full orchestra was heard.

The dance developed. The theme of birth and children appeared. In the climax, the dancers were clothed, as if costumed for a Mardi Gras. There was an illusion to Cats and most impressively, the dance and music, fully developed, concluded with a stylized interpretation of the Mexican Hat Dance.

Dance, music, clothes, romance evolved and the rhythm of the Mexican Hat Dance with it's staccato footwork brought us back to the origin of dance, the animal kingdom.

Dance had developed and progressed in a "social act."

Expenses: Hotel $35, bus &7.50, meals $15, taxis $19, dance $5.50. Total: $82.

Day 4: Sea of Cortez: Kino Bay College Heaven

My sister-in-law once spent a short, happy college, beach vacation at Kino Bay in the Sea of Cortez, about a two-hours' drive from Hermosillo. She wondered, "Has it changed?" I had a connection and asked my friend Bernardo if he could email his friend in Hermosillo, and maybe I could spend a Sunday at the beach.

Bernardo's friends Christian and Etty were my hosts for the day. They picked me up at Hotel San Andres at 10 a.m. This was the last day of Spring Vacation and their son had been spending the week with college friends at Kino Bay. It was the best of timing. I would view of the Sea of Cortez and Christian and Etty would pick up their son.

Kino Bay was packed with college students. Ten kilometers of beach homes line Kino Bay along the one-road access. Traffic was heavy. All I saw were bumpers and bikinis for 6 miles. Christian and Etty looked the town over and spotted their favorite beachside restaurant. We drove end to end, and up on a cerro (hill) that gave us an excellent view of the Sea of Cortez, the beach, the sierra and the desert. The colors were blue, brown and tan.

We stopped, parked and walked the beach. The beach was active but not full. Young men were playing soccer with beer cans for a goal. A yellow, red and blue umbrella stood out in contrast to the beach and the white shells, kicked up by waves and the tide, formed a crunchy path along the Sea of Cortez.

Vacation homes were under construction.

I felt like I needed a pass to enter, as I was the oldest guy on Kino Beach. We were told that the college crowd was a once-a-year phenomenon. For the rest of the year, fishing and tranquility would reign.

We lunched at Mariscos Judy, a beach restaurant. Judy, an American had married a Mayan chef and opened this restaurant. We ordered the specialty, a combination plate of shrimp, fried fish, manta ray, vegetables, salad and cold beer. Then we had a second beer.

Expenses: Hotel $35, breakfast $6, miscellaneous $4. Total: $45.

Day 5: Up Before the Rooster, The Road to Creel

I left the Bus Central Saturday feeling that my trip may be altered. I was nearly convinced that I'd be going south to Los Mochis and would have to catch the Copper Canyon train to Creel.

My belief that you can get anywhere in Mexico on a bus was reconfirmed when the clerk at Central Bus Terminal told me to take the Transportes Chaves bus to Yecora and that there were connecting buses in the Sierras. But I started to have doubts.

Transportes Chaves was ready at 6:30 a.m. in Hermosillo and left shortly after 7 a.m. It was Second Class, which means very comfortable seats, sofa like. The bus seated 40; there was no TV and no onboard bathroom. Executive Class would be luxury with super wide seats, 24 passengers, TV, and bathroom. First Class 32 seats, has TV and bathroom. The bathroom removes 8 seats that you find on Second Class. Third class, is generally a shorter bus, windows open for fresh air. It looks like a school bus.

I preferred the Second Class without the TV and curtains. In First Class I felt like I was in a rolling Movie Theater and missing the view.

We rolled out east across the plains looking directly at the Sierra Madre Occidental, brown and barren. The jagged edged, tall peaks, looked like a saw edge, which the word sierra means. We raced forward, climbed the low hills and then entered the sierras where twists and turns slowed our progress. It was a 180-mile, 5 1/2 hour trip. It became 6 when we stopped for a bathroom and lunch break near Yecora, just before our descent through a majestic wind eroded canyon where the driver pointed out various forms. There were craggy faces, mushrooms and turtles.

We drove past Tepoca, a town with glittering galvanized roofs in the sun. I asked Jesús Ramon, my seatmate, "What's the industry here?" I expected, "Saw mill, lumber, maybe mining." But Jesús said, "Marijuana." I let that drop.

We arrived in Yecora, before 2 p.m., a town of about 1000. It was dusty and looked wind swept. The Pemex gas station was the glamour highlight. I was concerned that I'd be spending a night here. I noticed three young men standing across from the Pemex on the highway. I asked it they were waiting for a ride or if there was a bus.

What good fortune! The tallest fellow, who looked like a student, wearing a white shirt, black sweater and black trousers, said there would be an Estrella Blanca Bus within a few minutes. It was the Obregon to Chihuahua bus that could take me most of the way to Creel.

Within 15 minutes I flagged down the bus. As I went to board the Estrella Blanca (White Star) bus, the driver told me, "There are no seats." I said, "That's OK, I can stand." The driver said he could take me as far as San Pedro, a 7-hour ride and I could connect to Creel.

No seat was the best seat. I stood on the steps in the door well. I had an up-front view standing in the entrance steps of the bus. I got off and on the Estrella Blanca at least 10 times as we stopped and dropped off passengers and picked up new ones. Seats were always full and I maintained my windshield panorama station. I had a better view than the driver because I did not have to watch the road.

It was a long day and a very lonely road. I don't think I saw 5 vehicles all day long. But with the changes and connections, I hardly noticed the time. The sierra was magnificent with pipe organ and saguaro cactus in bloom, encinos, (scrub oaks), long needle pines, cypress pines and the incredible flora, changing with elevation like Sedona in Arizona.

A coyote ran across the road, stopped and turned to watch us pass. Squirrels frequently raced across the road, darted into the brush or found a safe crevice among the rocks. One squirrel munching a dead snake on the highway was so deaf, or concentrating on his meal, that he didn't even flinch as the bus roared by.

The Estrella Blanca halted at a rest stop. We were given 20 minutes. I took a short walk and was standing on the highway, making sure I wasn't left behind, when I saw a hiker dressed in green fatigues coming down the hill towards me with a walking stick and a backpack. As he neared I greeted him in Spanish. We exchanged a few words about hiking in the area and then he explained why he was there. "I'm mapping the area using GPS for a Canadian company. We're mapping minerals." He told me he'd be there for three weeks.

The bus driver waved me over, I said, "Good-bye and good luck."

We slowed down in the mountains, but it was a great travel experience with the driver and co-driver (they switched off; the trip took 14 hours from Obregon to Chihuahua). They told stories and joked with the passengers.

From time to time the driver plugged in a music CD, all Mexican, Celina was his favorite singer. He said she was his girlfriend until her death. I asked for José Alfredo Jiménez. He flipped through his collection and we listed to José's Exitos (Greatest Hits). Estrella Blanca was second-class, so the driver's music did not compete with TV.

Estrella Blanca dropped me at San Pedro, a crossroads, at 9 p.m. Two log cabins were San Pedro. One was a restaurant with no bathroom, or at least for men it was the shadow behind the building. The other cabin seemed to be a house. I could see a weak, yellow light from within.

If a family of 4 hadn't been waiting for the bus, my heart would have begun to thump and race. I'm just too old for an overnight in a field with cows. The family assured me that the Noreste Bus would arrive shortly.

We waited about a half-hour and there were cheers when the Noreste bus pulled off the highway, rounded the corner and stopped. There were plenty of seats for the 1-1/2 hour ride to Creel.

I was surprised. I never thought I'd arrive in Creel my first night out from Hermosillo.

The Noreste bus was first class with TV but no bathroom. So I'm confused as to whose definition to rely on. Maybe different companies have their own system. I was even ready to sit and watch a film after standing for 7 hours. The movie was Aviator, the story of Howard Hughes. I arrived in the middle. The film was in English without subtitles. I think I was the only one on the bus who listened, or could.

In Creel, Victor, a guide met the bus. He was friendly, courteous and eager to show me a hotel. At 11 p.m. I was eager too. He gave me a pitch on tours and we walked two blocks to a very nice, warm hotel. There was no name. It was recently remodeled and the price was $25, a bargain.

I asked for a restaurant and Victor took me to La Victoria. I asked what I owed him and he said, "Nothing." He was hoping that I'd come by in the morning and look over the tours. I thanked him, but also gave him 20 pesos for his good advice and for helping me.

I entered La Victoria with another man. We were the last customers. I ordered vegetable soup, that was mostly cauliflower, and a beer. It came with corn tortillas.

I spoke with the other man across from my table. He carried a carbine rifle, wore green camouflage fatigues with a U.S. flag patch, and some army insignia on his shoulder. He said that he was a "policía" in Urique and invited me to sit at his table.

We both had soup and a beer. I asked him about his rifle. He got out his I.D. card, Leonardo Lopez Carrillo. He unfolded an official document. It was his permission to carry a carbine 223. He was the strangest looking cop I ever saw, but the papers were all documented, stamped and notarized. I asked if I could snap his picture.

He stood in from the fireplace. I felt like I was taking the picture of the last man who rode with Pancho Villa.

Expenses: Buses $40, meals $14, hotel $25, miscellaneous $2. Total: $81.

A Tourist's Delight: Days 6-10. Creel, Guachochi

Day 6: Creel: Eco-tourist's Delight

I spent the morning trying to catch up on email and when you're in Creel, the connection is slow and the computer set a World's Record for "Error Page."

I checked out the Tours and all sounded like paradise for the Eco-tourist, plus they added in a visit to the Tarahumaras, who call themselves the Raramuri (Light feet). Or with a map, you could do-it-yourself: bike, motorbike, rent-a-car or hike.

At the tourist center there were free maps for the hiker, camper and overnighter. I wondered if Leonardo Lopez Carrillo protected the popular hiking route from Creel to Urique.

I took the 2 p.m. tour which was advertised at 120 pesos. It assumed a minimum of 6 tourists. We were only 3, so the price was adjusted to 200 pesos ($19) which I couldn't complain about since 6 times 120 is 720, and among us, we only paid 600.

Martin was a courteous driver and I rode shotgun. The couple behind was from Norway, or at least Einar was native Norwegian, his girlfriend Carmen was Mexican from Monterrey. She had earned a scholarship and was studying in Norway for her Masters. She loved the 4 seasons and the winters. This was Einar's first trip to Mexico. They spoke English and Norwegian, but Einar was lost in Spanish.

Tour Number 1 took us to Horseshoe Lake and Cascada Cusarare, where we walked, hiked and took photographs. A herd of goats came by under the pine trees as we admired the lake. But Cusarare Falls were a dribble. Martin said they were in the seventh year of a drought and the famous Basaseachi Falls, higher than Yosemite, were completely dry.

We visited the restored San Miguel Mission church and museum with outstanding oil paintings of Saints from the 18th Century. I entered the church, now plain and barren. All paintings had been removed and were protected in the museum. The walls were whitewashed and the windows accented with a broad band painted brick red.

Four ladies sat silently against the right wall on benches, the only seats in the church. In the center of the sanctuary in front of the altar there was a small flower adorned cardboard casket. The women were silently grieving for a child.

Martin called us to the van and we headed back to Creel. We made our last stop at a home of a Tarahumara family. They opened their home to tourists for a tip. The house was a cave built under an overhanging rock.

The front of the cave was walled up with stones. Dark smoke billowed from a stovepipe chimney marking the rock cliff with black soot. Inside, there was a kitchen, cupboards, two beds, chairs, a table and a small hammock used as a cradle. Water was hand carried in buckets from a nearby well. I coughed. It was smoky and my photos looked like I took them in a fog.

The father had died in a rockslide accident while building a highway. The widow was tenderly rocking an infant in the hammock cradle. The daughter, 24, dressed in a casual black sleeveless top and jeans, rather than the bright colors preferred by the indigenous, lived in town and worked at a hotel. She was a single mother of two and earned $10 a day. She said she was born here in the cave. The children lived here with her mother. She said she had a primary school education and left home at age 14 to work.

Creel was a rustic town. Log buildings gave it western feel. Work crews with picks and shovels were everywhere repairing streets and sidewalks. Cement was being mixed in batches on the street.

Creel was located in a valley and surrounded by forests. There were ponderosa pines, long needled, short needled and Triste (Sad) pines whose needles drooped down. Sculptured rock formations framed Creel to the east. In the west, on the hill, overlooking Creel, there was a giant white Cristo Rey (Statue of Christ).

Expenses: Hotel $25, meals $19, tour $20, Internet $2. Total $66.

Day 7: Creel: The Flying Stone

The Norwegian-Mexican couple I met the day before enjoyed hearing about my Mexican experiences. They invited me to dinner and asked if we could join up together.

Carmen was on a scholarship and her Master's thesis was about Eco-tourism and my comments about the places I've been fit her theme. She studied photography for 3 years in Paris and would like to video my remarks. I agreed. It sounded like a new adventure.

We signed up for Tour Number 2 and for the bus to Batopilas in the heart of the Copper Canyon.

At 7 a.m. I was up and walking the streets of Creel in my green Timberline jacket in the cold, fresh morning air. Kids with backpacks were on their way to school, adults with backpacks headed for a canyon hike.

I walked to the edge of town past the train station and the Noreste Bus depot where I had arrived Monday night in the dark. I walked over a bridge but the riverbed was rock, dry sand and weeds.

A fellow was leaning against the bridge. I asked, "When does it rain?" "June and July," he said. "And snow?" "December," he said. "How much snow do you get? I asked. He took his hands, palms facing each other and showed me a measure of about 7 inches. "This is a little he said. Then he moved his hands apart to about 10 inches, "This is a little more." And parting his palms to about a foot, "This is a lot," he said.

I walked back to town. In this isolated place, there was a Banco Santander with an ATM and in the main street drivers were talking on their cell phones. You could sit down to a treat at the Holanda Ice Cream parlor or choose among dozens of restaurants.

It was hard to believe that the hotels would ever fill up, there were so many. But I was told that during Easter and Christmas it was wise to have a reservation.

There were nearly as many Tarahumara craft and gift shops as restaurants. Plus the Tarahumaras brought their crafts to the plaza where they continued to work and were ready for sales. On the plaza, I purchased a figurine of a Tarahumara weaving from a lady working a loom.

Tour 2: Highlight Piedra Volador

Wednesday I met Einar and Carmen for the tour that took us to Divisadero, Piedra Volador, Piedra Fertilidad and Elephant Rock.

The rock formations were impressive, but the canyon, with its sheer, vertical drops, weakened my knees. The highlight was the Piedra Volador (Balancing Stone), which I had translated as "Flying Stone." A huge granite stone the size of a tractor tire was perched at the end of a rock abutment jutting out into the canyon. This rock abutment was about 20 feet wide then narrowed as you walked towards the cliff. The Balancing Rock was at the end. It was an odd-shaped stone, somewhat egg-shaped, resting on a flat rock top.

Our driver, Salvador, walked out on the jutting abutment, hopped on the egg-shaped stone and then shifted his weight. The stone rocked back and forth. It was a Flying Stone.

Salvador drove us back to Divisadero where one of the first Copper Canyon hotels was built. We shopped, ate lunch and 6 tourists in our van left to catch the train for Los Mochis.

Great tour, although it was a heart stopper for me.

Expenses: Hotel $25, meals $16, tours $15, bus $16 miscellaneous $7. Total $79.

Day 8: On the Road to Batopilas, Arrival at the Bottom of Copper Canyon

I woke before the roosters crowed but my sleep was broken multiple times throughout the night by fits of barking dogs.

I met Carmen and Einar at Hotel Margarita. It had the only open restaurant for breakfast at 7 a.m. Murals decorated the dining room. There were scenes, brilliantly colored, of the Tarahumara depicting dances and tribal life.

Carmen, Einar and I had toured the sites outside Creel the day before. Today we were headed deep into Copper Canyon.

We caught the Transportes Turisticos de la Alta y Baja bus on the main street, still deserted, at 7:30. Transportes ran a daily service for 170 pesos ($15) but the schedule varied.

It was a short bus, 24 seats, ideal for the mountain's sharp curves and switchbacks. There were 15 passengers. I sat in the rear and looked forward. One man was reading the Bible, another Shakespeare's Othello in Spanish. "What are odds?" I wondered. The man reading Shakespeare was a Mexican construction worker. The man reading the Bible was an American Priest, Father Dominic, whose parish was Batopilas.

I asked Father Dominic, "What's the weather likely to be in Batopilas?" He said, "We have two seasons: hot and dry, and hot and humid. The rainy season is June and July."

It's a lonely road from Creel to Batopilas, a 5800 foot decent from Creel to the bottom of Copper Canyon, three times the size of the Grand Canyon, home to 60,000 Tarahumara (Raramuri People) and a trip back in time to the 19th Century where a treasure in gold and silver was gouged from Mother Earth. The few vehicles, trucks and worn-out cars, on the road were filled with passengers, and a hitchhiker would rarely find a lift.

The paved road from Creel to the junction was 75 km. (47 miles). Then the bus turned west onto a dirt road 65 km. (37 miles) to Batopilas. Travel time was 5 hours. If the entire road were paved and flat, I could bike the route in less time.

At the junction, our driver shifted into low and we ground gears. We were in a pine forest following a ridge. The road was cliffhanger narrow, made of twists and mountain switchbacks. Then the canyon, one of 7, came into view. Majestic cliffs rose like guardians painted in multicolored, red, white, brown layers and streaked with green. Here was Nature's Calendar. Sedimentary stone, slate, rockslides, volcanic lava flows, white tufa and igneous rock were present.

Father Dominic pointed out features in the canyon and the Urique River.

We passed old mines, peered down at the river and crossed an iron trestle bridge supported by mammoth stone piers. The bus turned left. We were in Batopilas.

As we crossed the bridge we could see cows along the riverbank and Tarahumara women washing their clothes in the river.

Batopilas was a linear town forced to stretch 2 miles along the river. Steep canyon walls hemmed it in. We drove down the narrow road toward the center. We encounter a truck that backed up and pulled over to let us pass. A minor increase of vehicles will be a major problem for Batopilas.

Children played in the street. There was a soccer game and a boy and his sister bounced on a tire trying to off-balance one another. Cows roamed freely. They seemed to own the street, paid us little attention and were the town's street sweepers, licking up loose, fallen leaves that lay on the cobblestones. The leaves were broad and looked like they had fallen from a mango tree.

I saw more cows in Batopilas than I've ever seen in Texas.

We drove past a long well kept colonial styled building with a blue tiled cupola. It was a private chapel and part of the luxury by-reservation-only Hotel Riverside. There was no name on the building.

The bus made its final turn and we were greeted by the splendid sight of the town square with an ironwork bandstand framed in the background by a mural of Tarahumara children in bright colors.

Othello (that's what we called the man reading Shakespeare) suggested Mary's Hotel. Carmen, Einar, others from the bus and I entered and asked to see a room. The owner was out and the maid didn't know when he'd return, but she wanted to show us a room.

The office was locked but the maid took a table knife and tried to jimmy the latch. I said, "Pardon me. My misspent youth might be handy here." I took the knife and popped the lock open. There was mild surprise from onlookers.

Mary's would not have room for all of us and I noted there was no air-conditioning. At the end of the plaza was Juanita's. It was perfect, attractive, with inner patio, overlooked the river and offered central air. Juanita charged $20 a night for a single. Carmen and Einar choose Casa Real. It was painted a bright blue. A horseshoe was used to latch the gate. It was charming and had an alcove with photos and memorabilia.

I took a walk before dinner. There was a library and an Internet at the Centro Comunitario de Aprendizaje. Students were studying and learning computer skills. I retraced the main street all the way back to the green iron bridge. Near the bridge was an artist's studio. Luis was a German artist who chose Batopilas for his home and studio. I looked at the fine detailed paintings. "Are they pen and ink?" I asked. "No, they are watercolors." I liked the paintings but I was truly impressed by the fine detail work.

It was nearly 7 p.m. and I'd promised to meet Carmen and Einar for dinner.

I started to walk back. I passed a shack selling beer and soft drinks. A man spoke up. He looked like a wrangler. He wore a cowboy hat and white cowboy shirt opened in front. He was solid with muscular arms and a mustache.

"Are you with a group?" he asked. "No, I'm by myself," I said. We talked. He introduced himself, "Arturo, guide." He struck the right note with me and we agreed to meet at 8:30 a.m. for a comprehensive tour of Satevo, Mission San Miguel Archangel, Eagle's Nest, the Tarahumara Village and San Miguel Mine.

I was all set and hoped that Carmen and Einar would join me and share the expense.

Expenses: Hotel $20, meals$18. Total $38.

Day 9: The Mission, the Mine and Dancing with Gringas

Carmen and Einar were enthusiastic and agreed to join Arturo's Tour and split the cost.

They were staying at Hotel Casa Real with a squad of motorcyclists, business and professional men who could afford the bikes and enjoyed the challenge of the canyon's steep unpaved roads. One biker, Mike Madden, from the Bay Area, near my home, said, "I graduated from a school you never heard of, Maritime Academy." (A top school for Merchant Marine education.) I fished in my brain and came up with," Do you know Tom Stapleton?" "Yes, where is Tom?" Six Degrees of Separation seemed like only 1.

Next morning, Arturo showed up at 8:30 a.m. with his tour-mobile, a pickup truck outfitted with automobile bench seats in the truck bed. He surprised us with two additions, Heidi and Amber, mother and daughter, whom we had seen on the bus ride into the canyon. Arturo said we could split the cost 5 ways. I was surprised by his generosity. A four-hour tour, $30 divided by 5, brought the price down to $6 each. He could seat 8, 2 in the cab and 6 in the bed facing each other. We were only five and comfortable.

I hopped in the back. Arturo drove a block, stopped and called out for gas. There are no gas stations in Batopilas. A lady wearing a pink tank top and jeans with a red stripe highlighting the pant's seam came out from a store with a 4-gallon white plastic container. She inserted a rubber tube into the gas container. Arturo held the container upright. The lady sucked on the tube and siphoned the gas from the 4-gallon jug into the truck's tank.

We drove out of Batopilas towards Satevo bouncing and weaving on the rough road. I told Carmen, "I haven't had such a great ride since my dad hauled trash and I got to ride in back, but without this comfort."

We had a great view of the canyon, the steep walls, the desert cacti in bloom, the river and the cows. "More cows than Texas," I said. A bull faced off the truck then changed its mind.

Einar, Carmen and I were wearing short sleeves. I could feel the sun. Amber was wearing a tank top. She offered us sunscreen. The youngest was the best prepared.

Arturo stopped when Mission San Miguel Archangel, originally built in 1707, came into view. It was a National Geographic picture view: a canyon, river, swinging bridge, ancient bell towered mission set in a valley with a mountain backdrop.

As we neared the mission, Arturo stopped periodically for us to take photos, each closer than before.

There was a small community living here in Satevo. Arturo called a girl over and asked her to run get the key to the San Miguel Archangel church. The interior was simple, without benches, but the building was unusual. It was built of red bricks. It was designed in the form of a Roman cross, the cross arms rounded not squared off.

Outside I learned about the pitalla tree, a hands-on experience. It looked like a young cottonwood to me. When I stepped up on a stonewall for a better angle to photograph San Miguel Archangel, I put my hand on the pitalla tree for support. My hand jumped in reflex. I got my first opportunity ever to use the tweezers in my Swiss knife. Seven needles implanted themselves into my left hand. The 4 in my fingers I pulled out with my right hand. But three broke off in my palm and once again I praised the Swiss.

The girl who brought the key also came with a guitar. Arturo asked the girl about her progress and what she could play as he tuned the guitar. She was shy but played for us. Arturo asked for songs. I suggested any song by José Alfredo Jiménez.

Arturo played Camino de Guanajuato. He encouraged me to sing along. I knew some of the verses but needed Arturo to prompt me and fill in gaps. We sang, "No vale nada la vida..." (Life is worth nothing). The song is a miner's lament and Carmen videoed the performance.

Arturo shifted to a waltz. Here we are at the bottom of the Copper Canyon and Arturo's strumming the guitar. There was a smooth surface, part of the old church courtyard, near the low stonewalls where Arturo sat and played. I asked Heidi, "Would you care to waltz?" We danced, everyone laughed. Carmen filmed.

Amber picked up the guitar. Her current guitar skill was modest but she was a talented singer. She sang blues. Here in the desert, she entertained us with "Give Me A Reason." She sang slowly, beautifully as if touched by Billy Holliday.

Arturo returned the guitar and key.

Tarahumara Village

I didn't see the village on the hill among the cacti and the brush until Arturo pointed it out. We followed Arturo up the path and as were neared the village, walking up the knoll, we saw trash strewn everywhere. There were scraps of plastic snagged on cacti, a child's cap, pink embroidered with a smiling Mickey Mouse, a discarded red sweater, plastic bottles and aluminum cans.

It really wasn't a village but a small family community. Only women and children were present. Arturo said we could talk, visit, and take pictures. A gift was expected.

We received a mixed reception. We met bright smiles and easy conversation. Then again, there were blank stares that I felt were either resentful or hostile. I asked Arturo. He said, "No, you are welcomed, but some are just shy."

I asked one of the young ladies, "Do you live here year around?" "No," she said, "we move higher up during the rainy season."

One young lady played the harmonica. She was friendly and smiled. She smiled with perfect white teeth, the whitest I've ever seen. They were so white and straight they seemed like an ad for "Bright Smile."

The Tarahumara women dressed in bright colors, broad skirts, and billowy blouses. They have an aesthetic sense of color. I said, "They are the Canyon's desert flowers, so brightly colorful."

The homes were primitive. There were wood-burning stoves, improvised, made of metal castoffs and a stone metate for grinding corn. The Tarahumara were kind, but I felt intrusive.

I asked Arturo how we should pay for our visit. He said they we could offer a small amount to whomever we photographed or talked to. I suggest that we make it to the community, put all our funds together and let the Tarahumara allocate. Arturo thought this was a reasonable idea. He picked up a small clay pot and we dropped in pesos.

Arturo led us away and showed us a cave, once lived in, higher up on the hill. We returned to the pickup truck.

Next Stop Eagle's Nest:

Arturo drove along the river, then stopped. We followed him down the steep bank to the riverbed, climbing over boulders. Then we walked up the river on smooth river stones. We looked at the vertical red cliffs. Arturo pointed out an eagle's nest. A young eagle, not mature, but not an eaglet either, circled overhead.

Two boys were fishing in the river with a spool and line. They were using dough for bait. The boys had chosen a spot where the river took a twist and large boulders nearly damned the river and created a pool. We climbed out on a large granite rock. There was a clear pool about 15 feet below. We could see the fish swimming in a school, but the boys had no luck.

We climbed back up the trail to the road. It was after noon, before 1 p.m. The sun was overhead. Arturo drove us back to Batopilas. Lunch and cold drinks were in demand. We talked it over. We were tired. Carmen hardly spoke. The heat had wilted her. We told Arturo that we would like to go on his mine tour later in the afternoon, but we needed a three-hour rest. Arturo agreed to return to the plaza at 4 o'clock and we would go to the abandoned San Miguel Mine and he would also show us the finest swimming hole in Batopilas. He said, "Bring a flashlight."

A three-hour rest and cold drinks did us well. Our tired spirits were refreshed when Arturo returned.

We drove to the mouth of the mine, a gaping hole, pure rock, large enough for a good-sized truck to enter. Painted on the wall in red letters: "Do not enter. Dangerous Mine" It was.

Arturo's advice to bring flashlights was the minimum precaution. He knew the mine well. The danger was not from a rock falling. The mine was solid rock without supports. The danger was that it appeared safe. About 20 yards from the mouth of the mine, just about where one would still feel comfortable and just when, like entering a movie theater in the daylight while your eyes were still adjusting to the shadows, there was a 20-foot shaft nearly as wide as the floor of the cave. We crossed on a two-foot ledge.

We followed Arturo in a single file. He led us around, walking past shafts and drifts. One shaft was filled with crystalline water. Arturo told us to be silent and he pitched a stone into the water. We could hear the sound of the stone through the water as it tumbled and bounced off the shaft's walls as it fell to the bottom. He directed us to the "veta," a silver-lead vein. There was silver. It was just a matter of the cost of mining versus the price per ounce.

Arturo told us to keep still and turn out our flashlights. It seemed to get colder with the lights out. In the black silence no one stirred. We waited in suspense. Someone in the dark spoke sharply, "Get your hands off!" We burst out laughing and the flashlights came back on.

Amber felt claustrophobic in spite of the large tunnels. She was happy to leave the mine.

Arturo took us back down the canyon from San Miguel Mine and crossed a bridge. He drove the truck off the road and up the left side of the riverbank. He stopped at a swimming hole. "It's up stream of Batopilas. The water is safe and clean, " he said.

We felt like a swim, but caution ruled. Arturo picked up a smooth river stone and skipped it across the river. We all got into this childhood sport. Arturo was champ.

Evening: Dancing with Gringas

We agreed to meet in the plaza at 7:30 p.m. for dinner. Heidi recommended Swinging Bridge Restaurant where she and her daughter ate the night before and met Arturo. "They have live music and cold beer," she said.

At dinnertime I ordered arrachera, a thin-cut Mexican steak. But the cut, influenced by tourists I suspect, was thick. I chatted with Heidi. I mentioned that I had spent Day of the Dead in San Miguel de Allende. Heidi asked, "Did you pass a hacienda called La California?" "I filmed it. I know Rosalia Peña." Heidi had once dated Martin, Rosalia's brother. La California is an architecturally eclectic hacienda inspired by places that Casimiro Peña, the patriarch of the family, visited traveling around the world. He had named the hacienda for his alma mater, Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo. For the second time, Six Degrees of Separation turned into one.

The conjunto arrived.

An American lady, Lynn, introduced herself. She had a jewelry store in Batopilas, "Open from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. daily," she said. She told us that the conjunto (three piece band) charged 10 pesos ($9) for three songs.

Arturo came in. There were greetings around the restaurant. We invited him to our table. He ordered a beer. Young friends dropped by.

I called the conjunto over and requested a few songs. They played Norteño style, a polka beat rhythm. Arturo asked Heidi to dance. I don't recall them sitting down. A young man came over and spoke with Amber. She practiced her Spanish. The young man asked her to dance. It was fun to watch the couples and listen to the band.

Carmen and Einar were weary and said goodnight. I stayed, watched and listened a while longer, then feeling worn out from sun and activity, knowing that the next morning the bus would leave at 5 a.m. for the junction where I could connect to Guachochi, I waved goodnight.

Expenses: Hotel $20, meals $41, tours and tips $20, music $9. Total: $90.

Day 10: Part 1: The Junction

I woke before the alarm went off. It was set for 4:15 a.m., but I woke, reached over for my glow in the dark clock and read the time, 4:05.

In the coal black dark I couldn't find the light switch. I got out of bed, felt the wall, found the bathroom and switched on the bathroom light. I had forgotten that the bedroom light was over the bed.

I left Juanita's at 4:30 a. m., early for the bus. I walked to the church, crossed the plaza. The night was cold, crisp, with faint stars overhead. The deep canyon walls prevented me from seeing the moon.

I was the first to arrive and stood waiting. I saw shadows coming towards the church, the main door being in front of the bus stop. The shadows were Carmen and Einar. Arturo, Heidi and Amber showed up a little later. Heidi was using an unfamiliar clock for the alarm. Arturo had risen early and came to say good-bye and make sure Heidi and Amber didn't over sleep.

It was a 3-hour ride to the junction. Instead of the canyon vista that we saw on the way in, the view was of a steep dirt road lighted by bus headlights. We were all quiet. I sat, rocked and swayed with the bus. Eventually, I slumbered. I woke a little muddled. I looked straight ahead. We were in snow. The road was pure white framed with pine trees with all the lower branches covered in white power.

I nearly said, "Look at the snow." But shortly, I recovered my senses. We were on a white dust road, calcium carbonate I believe, and the dust kicked up by trucks and vehicles had powdered the pine branches. It was a beautiful sight to follow the headlights until the white road changed to brown.

I got off at the junction. I said good-bye to Carmen, Einar, Heidi and Amber. They were returning north to Creel. I was headed south to Guachochi.

There was a roadside home and business at the junction. I had a two-hour wait for the Camion Rojo (Red Bus) to Guachochi. A window to the house-refreshment stand was open. I called, "Hola" (hello). A lady came. I ordered coffee. The lady invited me into her home where I could sit down at a table.

She brought me a cup of hot water, a tablespoon and a jar of Nescafe. She was gracious and thoughtful.

I looked around the room: cement floor, pink walls, blue trim. It served all purposes. It was a dining room, children's playroom, and storage for Mobil oil and transmission fluid. There was a 3-week-old newspaper and parking for a child's bike. The walls were decorated with 5 calendars, each with a different picture and a black velvet painting of three roses with a verse from First Timothy 2:5. "For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus."

Personal treasures were housed in a cupboard. Some were knickknacks. There were figurines and religious items.

Three children scurried between the kitchen and bedroom, peeking at me as they rushed across the all-purpose room. It was a home with joy and love.

There was a four-foot half-wall that divided the kitchen from this all-purpose room. I could see the glow of the wood burning cast iron stove.

I finished my coffee, paid my bill and walked outdoors to wait for the Red Bus in the blue daylight.

Day 10: Part 2: Guachochi Frontier Town

The Red Bus picked me up at the Junction at 10 a.m. We arrived in Guachochi at 1:30.

Guachochi was a frontier town, dusty streets, a log cabin restaurant, cowboys and Indians. Reminded me of Gallup, New Mexico, 1974. There was a western flavor and a Tarahumara presence.

I entered the Tarahumara Artesania (arts and crafts) shop. Cipriano showed me three rooms filled with handcrafts. He said that Guachochi was the center for Tarahumara crafts. He picked up a drum, narrow in width but two feet in diameter, and took it outside. He called over a young Tarahumara man and encouraged him to play the large drum. The man smiled, but kept away. Cipriano banged away on the drum. He said he opened the store 34 years ago, started with cowboy hats. He had a good location on the center plaza.

I thanked Cipriano and explained that all I could carry was my shoulder bag. I said I had to find a hotel and he pointed the way to the Melina Hotel.

As I entered the Melina Hotel a huge wall photograph of a cascading waterfall greeted me. I registered, $30 a night for a very attractive room, the best so far on the trip. I asked about the photo. "That's Tónachi," I was told. It was only 40 km. (25 miles) from Guachochi, but an hour's drive.

My belief that you never need to think ahead in Mexico for activities was confirmed. I had arrived on Saturday, the first day of the Fair. Tonight there would be a Norteño Band, a dance and the crowning of Miss Guachochi.

It was a modest fair. Seemed like the carnival that used to come to my hometown in Colorado in the '50s. I attended the dance and sat as far away from the amplified music as possible. The band played but the room echoed and the music blended into noise. No one minded. The princesses sat on a dais, but as the ceremony started late and I was dead tired, I left without knowing which beauty was Queen.

My bus would not leave until 11:30 the next day. I thought, maybe I can sneak in a side trip to Tónachi.

Expenses: Hotel $30, meals $12, buses $16, entertainment $23. Total: $81.

Side Trips, Parades and a Gem: Days 11-15. Guachochi, Parral, Durango, Zacatacas, San Luis Potosi, Rio Verde

Day 11: Tónachi to Parral

I was weary when I came back to Hotel Melinda from the fair. I fell asleep but awakened early, before 7 a.m. The hotel restaurant wasn't opened so I ate Marias (vanilla wafer cookies) and drank bottled water for breakfast.

I walked over to the taxi stand. I had asked a taxi driver last night what the price would be to make a quick side trip to Tónachi. "500 pesos," ($45), he said, for the ride, one way. He didn't seem interested in talking about a round trip and time for photos. It was too hypothetical, and although I felt it was high, at least I had some idea of the price. Millions of Mexicans cross the border to earn $10 an hour. I felt that $10 an hour in Mexico, without all the trouble of going north should be attractive.

The taxi stand was vacant. It was 7:30 a.m. and the Tónachi bus only operates three days a week. A taxi was my only choice.

A fellow pulled up in front of the Tortilleria across from the taxi stand in a 1984 white Chevy pickup with a black hood, and a green right fender. Steel posts and wooden slats fenced in the pickup truck bed. He was picking up a stack of hot corn tortillas.

I said, "Where can I get a taxi?" "Here's a taxi," he said. He said he hauled pigs, goats, cows and firewood, and he'd take me. His name was Lucas and he was a solid five feet nine inches. He was gifted with personality. He could have passed for the boxer's older brother. His salt and pepper hair was cut short. He wore cowboy boots, white jeans with a western belt, and a black jacket.

We struck a bargain. I'd pay him the standard taxi fare, but he'd take me to the falls, point out the sites and get me back in 3 hours

We talked all the way to Tónachi. We stopped near a Tarahumara lumber mill, in front of monolith stone where a niche had been carved out for a large statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe and then we stopped at a second shrine. It was a cave along the riverbank, also with a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

I felt I was back in the woods along the Truckee River near Lake Tahoe where my son lives.

We forded two shallow streams in the Chevy. The tires kicked up a spray of water. A bridge with massive stone supports was under construction at the first river. Lucas stopped for me to take pictures of Tónachi, the church and the "laundry." Clothes, all in brilliant colors, were draped over a chain link fence, hung out to dry.

We drove past Tónachi and out into the river onto a rock pan. Lucas said, "This is the dry season." We walked on the blue-gray rock pan towards the falls. Instead of one giant, wide cascade, as I had seen in the photo, there were three narrow, smaller falls, but still white beauties to see.

I took a number of photos from above and from the side. I stood where, in the photo in Hotel Melinda, a torrent cascaded. A front view would have taken us on a long route and we did not have time.

We got back into the truck. Lucas had looked for an open store on our way through Tonachi. Now, on the way back, he saw the Consupo, the government discount store. It was open. We stopped. The store was like an old general store. It had a counter that cut the room off from the merchandise. All the stock was behind. Lucas asked for tuna, and a man at a counter brought him a can. Lucas had purchased a stack of hot tortillas just before meeting me on the street. Now he finally had something to roll inside his tortilla. Lucas ate his breakfast on the return to Guachochi.

Lucas dropped me off at Hotel Melinda just before 11 a.m. I had a half hour to grab my things and walk to the bus station.

I caught the Transportes Ballezare for Parral. It was a 3rd class bus. We stopped frequently, anyone who waved, halted the bus and boarded. The driver, Daniel, left the bus door open for the breeze. It was comfortable. Daniel said that 3rd class buses are shorter and this one did seem like a school bus.

I had been on many Mexican buses in the early 1990s, some jammed so tight that holding on was both unnecessary and impossible. But on those trips I never found, or even thought about, body odor. But as we stopped and picked up Tarahumara families, I would suggest there is a market here for cologne.

I arrived in Parral, checked into Hotel Adriana, 375 pesos ($34). The lobby was marble, and in the entry there was a table with a spray of flowers. I was told it was the best downtown hotel. It was near the plazas, the cathedral and two museums. But first I got a shoeshine. I purposely wore walking shoes so from time to time I could sit in a plaza, have my shoes shined, talk and ask questions. But I had not seen one shoeshine stand on my entire trip and I'd accumulated 11 days of dirt and dust.

Expenses: Hotel $34, meals $13, side trip $45, bus $7, miscellaneous $5. Total $104.

Day 12: Parral, Parades and Pancho Villa

There is only one real reason to visit Parral: Pancho Villa. Pancho Villa was ambushed here July 20, 1923. He is a national hero, the pride of Chihuahua and venerated in Parral.

A plaque on the wall at Hotel Tourista commemorates this building as the site of the 1959 commemoration that commemorated Pancho.

His tomb is a monument in the cemetery tended by a distant cousin.

Parral itself is a city of clustered hills with a dozen bridges spanning the serpentine river that snakes through the heart of Parral. Each time I left my hotel I got lost. Once I ended up in a cul-de-sac. When I thought I would walk around a block, I ended up on top of a hill looking over the city.

It surprised me that although Juan Rangel discovered silver here over 350 years ago, the city showed few signs of colonial wealth. There were a few scattered buildings, perhaps 19th century, of notable beauty and architecture, but aside from the church, you would think nothing occurred here before 1800.

Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, the brown stone cathedral, had magnificent vibrant stained glass windows. Two major stories were pictured in the glass panels: the story of Christopher Columbus' discovery of the New World, and the story of Juan Diego, the Indian who saw the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico. In Mexico they say, "Even an atheist is a Guadalupano."

I visited the Pedro Alvarado Museum. It was once the mansion of a wealthy miner's family and now was completely restored and furnished as a home. There were amazing photos of the restoration, before and after. This classic mansion was built in 1903. It showed a harmony of classic, Roman, and Byzantheum elements. It was still the family home until 2000 when the heirs sold the property to the state.

Pictures taken in 2000 showed a mansion in extreme decay and neglect, yet a granddaughter lived here on the lower floor. In places, pigeon excrement had built up on the roof 2 feet thick and there were photos of men shoveling the guano into bags. I could not get over how the roof had leaked and ruined murals on the second floor, and more amazed that a once-wealthy family, through pure neglect, or lack of funds, had permitted an architectural treasure to suffer years of water damage.

I spent 2 days in Parral. There were side-by-side holidays, Día de Los Ninos (Children's Day) and Día Del Labor (Mexico's Labor Day). I needed the rest and this was the perfect spot. I took short walks and there were a number of plazas where I could just sit and watch. Also, I enjoyed the Day of The Children with its parade of floats. Every conceivable commercial cartoon character waved to the crowds of parents and children lining the parade route.

The children waved back with long, slender balloons that looked like light sabers from Star Wars.

Because it was a holiday, the city came to commercial rest, except that the museums were open. I took a tour of the city in a mini-tourist train.

A tractor, fitted to look like a locomotive, pulled open cars filled with tourists around the city center while a guide explained the history and pointed out places of interest. I heard a lot about Pancho.

Pancho was born Doroteo Arango. When he was 16, he assaulted the hacendero, who may have raped his sister, and fled. For the next 20 years Doroteo was a bandit and changed his name to Pancho Villa. But he took up arms for Francisco Madero the intellectual leader of the 1910 Revolution and Pancho became a hero in the eyes of his people. In the taking of Ciudad Juarez and Zacatecas, Pancho showed that he was a brilliant military leader.

In 1920, Pancho retired. He accepted a ranch-hacienda and gold in payment for his services from Mexico's government and lived south of Parral. He apparently felt secure after three years and although he still traveled with bodyguards, his habits betrayed him, and he was ambushed.

The prize of Parral was the Pancho Villa Museum. It was not large, but was located in the building from where Pancho was ambushed and assassinated in 1923.

The museum gave a very complete history of Pancho's life and an incredible detailed list of Pancho's 25 wives and 24 children. I once met Manuel Arango, a businessman, and asked him if he were related. He said, "I don't know, but Pancho had a very fast horse."

The museums offered a change of pace and I enjoyed a day of relaxation.

I took refreshment at Jesus's Stand just across from the central plaza. He had stools outdoors. A young girl 13, Juanita, a Tarahumara, sat down and ordered a filled bun. She was slender, bright, going to school and wished to become a teacher. She wore a yellow print cotton dress decorated with oranges and limes. I could see the hand stitching, nothing machined. I asked if I could take her picture. She said yes, was gracious. We crossed the street and I took her smiling photo in front of the church.

Expenses: Hotel $34, meals $14, museums and train tour $4. Total: $52.

Day 13 Part 1: Anxious to Reach Zacatecas

Parral was a rest stop. I said good-bye to Pancho Villa at his tomb in the cemetery and his distant cousin. I was refreshed, but anxious to arrive in Zacatecas. I told friends and family that I thought I'd cover the Tijuana-Zacatecas route in 10 days. Here I was, Day 13, and still on the road.

At Hotel Adriana I asked Gloria, the desk clerk, to check the bus schedules for me. I was ready to make it in one fell swoop to Zacatecas. It was 8 hours on my AAA map, but that's driving a car. I was hoping to make it in 9 hours by bus.

Gloria speed dialed bus information. She surprised me with an inconvenient schedule. The direct Parral-Zacatecas bus left daily at 2 p.m. I would have a long morning and a late arrival. Parral-Durango, my original stop along the way, gave me a choice of 5, 6, or 7 a.m. departures. It was a five-hour trip.

I let the sun wake me up and arrived at the Bus Terminal at 6:30 a.m. I was the first to buy a ticket and requested the front passenger window seat. I took the Transportes Chihuahuense, First Class, but with 6 short stops and a couple of roadside flag downs.

We headed south and passed the turn-off to Pancho Villa's hacienda at Canutillo, now a national museum.

My seatmate was Sister Lourdes dressed in her white and brown habit. She said she was a cloistered nun dedicated to a contemplative life at Nuestra Señora de la Soledad Convent in Sombrerete. This surprised me as I thought a cloistered nun never left the convent. She said, "I have permission to visit my family for medical reasons." She was fine company. I asked how many nuns were in the convent and how did they support themselves. She said, "We are 15, we have a schedule, morning mass, 2 hours of prayer, and we make rompote (alcoholic eggnog) and membrilla de miel (quince jelly) for sale."

We pulled into Sombrerete. Sister Lourdes said there would be a celebration tonight in honor of the Santa Cruz (Holy Cross) and a three-day festival. We said good-bye and I had 2 seats to myself.

The scenery was ranch country, cowboys on horses and herds of cattle. Slowly the ranches gave way to more cacti and I dozed.

We pulled into Durango at 2 p.m. We passed a Wal-Mart, an Office Depot and a McDonald's, which was across from the Bus Terminal.

Durango is a large city and I've read that it has an attractive colonial center. But I was eager to reach Zacatecas and I inquired if there was a bus connection to Zacatecas.

I had one hour to catch the bus for Zacatecas, just enough time to walk over to McDonald's order Chicken McNuggets, fries and a coke, get a little breather and then back on the bus.

In my mind, it was perfect timing.

Day 13 Part 2: Zacatecas: This Jewel Sparkles

The bus from Durango pulled in at 8 p.m. The sun dipped below the horizon, and gold morphed into black. I caught a taxi. The driver suggested Hotel Condesa. It was a perfect location with an even better price, $35 a night. (Without the Grand Marquis I didn't have to find secure parking and some of the old hotels, in this case 130 years' old, but remodeled and modern, are in great locations and economical.)

I checked in, washed up and by 9 p.m. I was ready for a walk to get the bus seat indentation off by backside. I stepped outside into a nighttime photographer's paradise. A rainbow of multicolored dancing waters illuminated a fountain plaza.

Cars passed under a flood lit ancient aqueduct. Light accented an 18th century bullring that had been converted by an architectural masterstroke into a dream hotel.

There were arched portals lit from below, church facades highlighted and the cathedral, carved in pink-rose cantera stone, was splashed in light.

When I last visited, Zacatecas was a gem, now it was polished to a brilliant multifaceted diamond cut.

On my first visit to Zacatecas in 1992, I had come to see the August pageantry: The Battle Between the Moors and the Christians. It's an annual spectacle, a four centuries' tradition. Thousands participate.

"Mexico begins in Zacatecas," I've told my friends. On the map, it's close to the geographical center, and that's where it should be, in the heart.

Somewhere, after I left Durango, I had crossed an imaginary line like Dorothy opening the door when the tornado dropped her house in Oz. When she opened the door, she saw the world turn from black and white to Technicolor.

That's how I felt. In a jolt, I had passed a frontier. I had left behind inelegant, dusty, dingy, worn towns and battered pickup trucks, and had been magically set down in a vortex of energy, quality, class, luxury, colonial-18th-19th century architectural beauties carved in rose-pink cantera stone. Here was an unsurpassed baroque churrigueresco detailed cathedral, and world-class museums with Picassos, Goyas, Dalís and, Monets.

There were libraries and bookstores, coffee shops and luxury goods. In Zacatecas crafts and souvenirs were art treasures.

Tourists drive into Mexico, see a border town, buy a trinket, and return home, repelled by the wrong end of the magnet. If only they would take the toll road south to Zacatecas. To me it was like leaving Laramie, Wyoming in 1950. You just had to drive across 1000 miles of desert and dust to reach California.

Here the streets were not paved in California gold, but in one-foot square stones. They were neither cobblestones that shake your kidneys nor economy asphalt. They added charm, class and a sense of time-worn history. In the morning rush, police directed traffic. Cars moved among the narrow streets instead of the trucks loaded with workers that I had become accustomed to seeing in Chihuahua.

There is only one reason to visit Parral, Pancho Villa. There is no reason to leave Zacatecas.

My room at Hotel Condesa overlooked the Teatro, the Cathedral and the Bufa. In the morning, just as I opened my eyes and stirred, 7 a.m., I heard the roar of a cannonade salute. Soaring rockets opened this day of celebration in honor of Día de la Santa Cruz (Day of Holy Cross). It was festival. This was México.

I took morning photos while the traffic was light and quickly discovered that my second chip was full. Then my gut wrenched when the best photo shop in town couldn't transfer my billion-mega bit Fuji chip to a CD. No studio in Zacatecas could, but Sanborns, which sold me my second Swiss knife, this time, sold me a 256-mega chip for $85. I paid $70 for the billion-mega model. But I was very happy to purchase the new chip.

(It turned out that the transfer machines couldn't handle more than 120 photos.)

The "Toma de Zacatecas" (Taking of Zacatecas) refers to the battlefield success of the Division del Norte led by Pancho Villa, but today, I felt "taken." Taken by the beauty of the city.

La Bufa was the backdrop of Zacatecas. It was a colorado-red monolith rising above the city. It looked like the petrified humpback of some gigantic Jurassic stegosaurus that had yet to be excavated. From La Bufa there was a teleferico (overhead cable car) that rode above the city for a eagle's view and took you to La Mina Eden, the source of mining millions, and now the best mining tour I've even taken.

The Teatro was a 19th century opera house with tired galleries and every Thursday the Municipal Band played on the steps in front of the Teatro. The program ended with "La Marcha de Zacatecas." Every one stood, the orchestra and the public. Children, the youngest members of the band, were invited one-by-one, in turns, to take the conductor's baton and lead the band playing their city's patriotic song.

I sat with the crowd on the Teatro steps, my knees hunched up. A discarded candy wrapper floated past, landed in front of the band and danced, moved by invisible currents of wind.

It was a variety program. The orchestra played a Spanish Paso Doble, La Bamba, Tequila, Solamente Una Vez and of course, La Marcha de Zacatecas.

I had arrived.

Expenses: Hotel $34, meals $10, buses $41, taxi $3. Total: $88.

Day 14: San Luis Potosi: Arrival

I boarded an Ominbus, which took me directly from Zacatecas to San Luis Potosi in cool, swift comfort. For 114 pesos ($11), Omnibus covered the 191 km (115 miles) in just over 2 hours.

I've told family and friends, "If I had to choose, right now, where to live in Mexico, I'd make it San Luis Potosi." It's Mexico's geographical center. It's an historic, colonial, cultural, and university center. It's a large city with the feel of a small town. But what I like most is how quickly from San Luis Potosi you can take side trips and show friends the variety of Mexico. Real de Catorce, the desert ghost-mining town is 3 hours north. Xilitla, Edward James's surrealist garden is east, over the mountains in the Huasteca where you find a paradise of waterfalls, rivers, scuba diving in mineral springs and lush vegetation.

You can make a day trip to Queretaro, or Zacatecas, or San Miguel de Allende, or Guanajuato or Dolores Hidalgo. Jarral de Berrios is a neglected hacienda that looks like a scene from a fairy tale with conical stone structures, columns and towers.

If you feel you must find a beach, try the hot springs resort at Gogorrón. There is no beach, there is no sand, but you'll have large pools, thermal baths, green grass and shade trees.

Arriving in San Luis Potosi, I purchased a taxi voucher in the Bus Terminal, a fixed rate of 31 pesos, and told the driver, "Hotel Real Plaza." I've been a regular at the Real Plaza for years, ever since I first taught Finance and English at the Mexican Cross Cultural Institute in the mid-90s. The school closed in 2000 when the owner fell in love and moved to Spain.

The cab driver told me he had worked in Napa Valley for three years, not too far from my home in California. I said, "Were you able to save up and bring some money back?" He tapped the steering wheel with his hand. "I bought this taxi," he said.

Hotel Real Plaza's posted rate was 640 pesos, but I asked for the "Promotional rate" and the price was reduced to 512 ($48) a night.

I checked into Hotel Real Plaza. The bellboy wanted to assist; he looked for my luggage. "Sorry, all I have is a shoulder bag." I took the key to the 10th floor.

I looked out the window and to my surprise there was a new, gated residential development 2 blocks north. I had to take a closer look. There were 103 townhouses; two were for rent. I spoke with a lady who was washing her car. She was soaping down a red Nissan. She owned a 3-bedroom 2-bath townhouse. "Could you give me an idea of the range of prices?" She said, "Last year I paid 800,000 pesos ($75,000)."

"Location, location, location," is the realtor's mantra, and it surely is true about the townhouses at Villa Vallarta. Across from the entrance is La Bodega, a major supermarket. In 5 minutes, a resident could walk to Parque Teguis, sit in the sun, or read a newspaper in the shade, enjoy the fountains, or meet a friend for coffee at Italian Coffee, which I prefer to Starbucks. It's located on Avenida Carranza, the main thoroughfare where buses are frequent.

On a hot day you can try any of 42 ice cream or sherbet flavors at Tequisnieves (Tequis Snow). It's a couple of doors down from Italian Coffee. Tequisnieves offers many flavors promising "delicious" but give you no hint of the taste. There is Springtime, Cinderella's Kiss, Angel's Kiss, Serenade of Love, Moonscape, Wind's Prayer, Song of the Mermaids and 1000 Flowers.

Founders Square is only a 20-minute stroll and the center plaza about 30 minutes. There are superior restaurants nearby. And you'll learn Spanish; there is no noticeable ex-pat community in San Luis Potosi. You can't even buy the English language Mexican edition of the Herald newspaper in San Luis Potosi.

I'm looking forward, to continuing my journey, Bus Across Mexico, Stage 2, San Luis Potosi to Puebla. I looked at the map. Puebla was south, but I wanted to see the Huesteca, missions and mines. I would take the bus east to Rio Verde.

Expenses: Hotel $48, bus $11, taxi $3, meals $16.

But for the summer, I got sidetracked. This old man is going back to school.

Day 15: Rio Verde, Media Luna, Tamasopo Falls-Cascades, and Puente de Dios

Bus Across Mexico Stage 2 Itinerary:

San Luis Potosi, Rio Verde, Xilitla, Zacualtipan, Tlaxcala, Puebla

I woke and peeked at my clock. It was 6:14 a.m. and there was time to catch the first bus to Rio Verde. It would leave at 7 a.m.

It was still dark when my taxi dropped me off at Bus Central.

The depot was brightly lit, counters open, clerks cheerful, ready to answer questions and sell a ticket.

"Rio Verde," I said. The clerk punched in some numbers, asked my name. I said, "Ricardo," she typed. "What seat do you want," she asked, turning the screen toward me. The bus was empty. I had my choice. "First seat, aisle, please." She typed, then pressed enter and my ticket was printed.

It was only 2 hours and 15 minutes to Rio Verde, but the world changed. San Luis Potosi is High Desert. Rio Verde (Green River) is over the mountains on the gulf side and it's humid and wet, and of course green.

We pulled in at 9:15 a.m. I bought a taxi ticket in the bus station. Tickets are sold to control the taxi drivers. It protects the passenger from price gouging and the bus station from losing their percentage for the right to pick up passengers.

I told the driver, "Downtown." Rio Verde is a commercial town, but with a very attractive center, well kept plaza and attractive church with a statue of St. Francis.

I checked into Hotel Arcos Vista Bonita. The room was reasonable, $27, but I had to ask for a reading lamp. They have a good restaurant on the second floor, with a view of the church and plaza. It's very attractive.

I dumped my belongings on the bed and went outside to the plaza, crossed the street to the taxi stand and negotiated. I wanted to see Media Luna and have time to take a few pictures.

We agreed on $5 an hour.

Media Luna (Half Moon) is a huge natural spring, crescent shaped, with underwater caves. The water is pure, crystalline, and a near constant 92 degrees. It's a short drive, but slow. The road is dirt, potholes and ruts.

Jacques Cousteau explored here. There is an underwater petrified forest, ancient fossils and 10 species of fish. The clarity of the water is ideal for scuba diving and training.

The road parallels a canal, which delivers the spring's enormous water flow to farms and ranches. Orange groves, bananas, sugar cane, corn, tomatoes and chilies are crops.

I had seen aerial photos of Media Luna, but I wasn't impressed. Its form seemed a curiosity. But what the photos failed to convey is that Media Luna is also a tree-shaded, camping, picnicking and barbecuing vacation oasis. Children were swimming in a warm river that flowed from the spring. The water was as clear as any I have ever seen.

I hiked past the campsites and out to the spring. A family was enjoying the water, swimming to a barge-float and sunbathing. Others preferred the shaded rivers, which fingered off the spring.

On the way back to town I ask Jorge, my driver, to stop near the canal so I could take a picture of what I called a "sun-star" flower, a flower growing among the lily pads with a yellow center circled by white petals.

As we drove near, two young boys, teenagers, were in the canal cutting the flowers. We stopped. I introduced myself and asked the older boy, who was cutting flowers, his name. "Eddie," he said. I took out my Polaroid, took Eddie's picture and gave it to him. I took a few digitals for myself.

Eddie called his friend, who brought him a plastic coke bottle, which had the top cut off. It was now a vase. Eddie cut three sun-star flowers put them in the vase and offered them to me. "Para la señora (For your wife)," he said. I thanked Eddie, but on the way back to town, I told the taxi driver, "I'm single; here's for your wife." The driver laughed. "My wife left me 15 years ago." "Well, here's good luck for a new girlfriend," I said. We both laughed. Here we are, two old guys with ammunition and no target.

Jorge dropped me off in front of my hotel. I paid him and he drove away, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a plastic-coke vase with 3 sun-star flowers.

Next I visited Tamasopo, a place renowned for it's waterfalls and cascades. I wasn't disappointed. The falls were a gushing torrent. Rivers and cascades are joined in another vacation paradise. I claim that Adam and Eve bathed here and the Tree of Knowledge has to be nearby.

Families and children were enjoying the beach, the sand, the wading and the swimming. Young men, with no fear of heights, climbed the cliffs and dove into the river as if racing the waterfall to see who would splash first.

This is a beautiful area.

It was late afternoon. I had taken the bus to the Tamasopo turnoff, but you had to take a taxi from the highway to the falls, about 6 miles. I negotiated $5 an hour so I could see a variety of cascades. But after a hike to see Puente de Dios (God's Bridge), my stomach was growling. I invited my driver to lunch. "You choose the place," I said. Fernando, my driver, chose a small, modest, family restaurant. He ordered fish stew. I ordered fried mojarra, a white river fish.

Good food, great day, beautiful scenery.

Expenses: Buses: $21, Taxis: $38, Meals: $12, Hotel: $27. Total: $98

Missions, Castles and Mining Towns: Days 16-20. Xilitia, Zacualtipan, Pachuca, Tlaxcala, Puebla

Day 16: The Mission Corridor to Xilitla

What a day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's amazing what a traveler can accomplish in a day, starting early, and using Mexico's efficient bus system and economical taxis.

Father Junipero Serra is esteemed as the Father of California Missions, but also he's venerated in Mexico as the Father of the Sierra Gorda Missions: Conca, Jalpan, Landa de Matamoros, Tilaco and Tancoyol.

Following the arrival of Father Junipero Serra in 1750 in the Sierra Gorda of Central Mexico, 5 baroque missions were built using indigenous artists and stonemasons. Each mission façade is a masterpiece and listed as a World Heritage Site. Each is unique and reflects the fusion of the indigenous and Spanish cultures. They are remote. Roads to all five were not constructed until 1963.

Like the "Victorian Ladies," houses in San Francisco, these missions were neglected until the 1960s when their baroque façades, with indigenous elements in the iconography became appreciated. The most elaborate, and considered the jewel of the Sierra Gorda Missions, Tilaco, was so remote that in order to renovate the mission, a road had to be built.

In fact the first workhorse truck had to be dismantled, carried over the mountains, and reassembled.

Doreen Stevens (www.ourmexico.com/story.php?storyID=20) wrote a superb article "Sierra Gorda Missions," and described the 5 missions. I cannot add to her comprehensive article, but as a bus rider, I do show the adventurous reader how a traveler can see and enjoy Mexico.

I started early. I hate to roll out of bed before the dawn. When I get up, I want the sun to shine or at least be aware that it's up before me. But dawn comes about 7 a.m. in this part of Mexico and that's the time my bus left Rio Verde for the Sierra Gordas, a paradise of mountains, gorges, a river and valley towns.

The Rio Verde taxi driver must have felt the same about rising before dawn. There was no cab waiting at the stand to take me to the bus terminal, but I had time to walk the mile or so, about 20 minutes.

The clerk at the bus counter remembered my name, Ricardo, and when I asked for a ticket to Conca, she automatically typed in my name and assigned me seat number 3, same as the day before.

I had 5 missions to visit, three on the same route, 2 hidden in the mountains. I figured I could take the bus to 3 and negotiate with taxi drivers for the side trips. Yes, buses do trek into the Sierra Gorda, but some routes are daily, not hourly, when you leave the main road, highway 120.

The day went smoothly.

I was soaked in the rain, burned in the sun, rode buses and taxis, marveled at the missions, ate breakfast in Conca, met the Secretary of Tourism, took a zillion photos(hope I can remember the order of the missions when I get home) skipped lunch in favor of cokes, checked into El Castillo in Xilitla, ate supper, Pollo a la Mexicana, and by 6:30 p.m. I was using the Internet at the Cyber Cafe. That's a lot of activity packed into12 hours.

The early morning bus driver from Rio Verde believed his passengers had snoozed enough. He started the engine, and before backing out of the stall, he turned on Norteño polka-accordion music. He liked it loud and because he was the driver, he got his choice. We um-pahed, um-pahed, um-pahed, um-pahed for the next hours, in and out of three towns. The lyrics were clear. It's not a bad way to practice your Spanish on a trip.

I left my notes someplace, and I wasn't sure of all the missions' names. I asked the driver, "Is there a mission in Conca?" "Conca?" he says, "There is nothing there. There is an old hacienda." As we approached Conca the mission church stood out against the skyline, tall steeple, a tower and a half dome vault. Sometimes I wonder what I said in Spanish and what I think I said.

I had an hour to see the mission and eat breakfast, plenty of time as the town's main restaurant was a block from the church. I did have to walk the 8 blocks to the cafe where a sign read, "Gloria's Restaurant Secretary of Tourism."

Gloria turned out to be a bouncy, 4 foot 8 inch charmer and cook. I asked about the Secretary. She said, "That's for tourists, they come in for advice and find a place to eat."

I ordered Mexican scrambled eggs and coffee. Gloria asked, "With chili?" I said, "Yes." We talked. I took her picture, gave her a Polaroid. She beamed with pleasure.

The tortilla man, with a loud amplified truck, parked in front without turning off the truck's engine or sound system. He came in. Gloria and I were taking, but he interrupted. I let Gloria handle the tortilla sales. I thanked her for breakfast and said, "Muy saborosa, (very flavorful)," and left in a hurry to see the mission church.

The church was adorned with wonderful, iconographic sculptures. I took photos but kept an eye on the time. Then I walked quickly to the terminal, and when I reached into my pocket to pay for my ticket, I realized I had just stiffed Gloria.

I imagined my bill taped to the cash register for all tourists to see, "This gringo left without paying."

Luckily, a taxi was at hand. I had 5 minutes. I said to the clerk at the bus counter, "Please don't let the bus leave without me." The taxi driver thought it was funny. He drove straight to Gloria's. She was all smiles. I paid for breakfast and rushed back.

Two minutes later the bus pulled in. I hopped aboard.

The next 2 missions, Jalpan and Landa were easy stops along the way. Tilaco and Tancoyol, somewhat remote, but easy taxi rides, were well worth the economical fare.

I was concerned after a final side trip to Tancoyol when the taxi driver left me on a barren stretch of the main highway to catch the next bus and a rainsquall arrived with raindrops the size of nickels. I tried to find shelter under a tree, but it soon turned into a shower when the tree's canopy only broke the large raindrops into smaller ones. But, just as I could feel my Timberline water repellent jacket no longer repelled and panic was setting in, I spotted two headlights in the rain, hailed the bus and rode in dry comfort to Xilitla.

August mornings are grand in Mexico, but afternoon showers can strike quickly with a ferocious, tropical downpour.

I checked into El Castillo, once the private home of Edward James, now a unique Bed and Breakfast with swimming pool and art treasures.

Expenses:

Buses: $9, Taxis: $27, Meals: $12, Hotel: $60, Total: $108

Day 17: Xilitla: Edward James' Dream Castle and Garden: El Castillo and Las Pozas

Sleeping Beauty would have been wide-awake in Edward James' Castle, unless she felt no need for privacy. You are a guest in a home, not a hotel, and my bedroom, on the first floor, was designed for flow through ventilation, with a ceiling fan wafting a light breeze pleasantly during the night. Windows opened to the hallways. But as a guest, among strangers, I felt the need to close the windows as I lay in bed reading. This interfered with the circulation and the room became humid and warm. Of course, I then felt the need for even less covering and more privacy.

But El Castillo is still a pleasure. Edward James placed his artistic imprint on his home. It is a treasure. Guests are free to wander this multistory fantasy structure and to photograph the inspiring views of Xilitla and the lush terrain where the principal crop is coffee. There is a swimming pool and a very large family reading room that runs the full length of the building. It's currently used as the guests' dining room.

A recent addition is the Edward James Museum. There is a photo history of James, but the most interesting items are the hand carved moulds used in the construction of James' surrealistic garden Las Pozas.

Saturday morning I walked this hill town. Gray mist, humid banks of smoke-like fog enveloped the valley with a Shangri-la impression of lost time and mystery. Vendors were taking over the plaza and side streets, with stalls and canopies to shelter buyers and merchandise. Breakfast in El Castillo was at 8.30 a.m. I felt like James or a member of his family starting a day in Xilitla, casually, with the sun lighting the steep walled valley dappled with fog.

I came to see Edward James's Las Pozas, a garden in the jungle, an inspired concrete surreal fantasy that makes you think of Salvador Dalí in 3-dimensions.

Las Pozas (The Pools) opened at 9 a.m. I walked the mile downhill from El Castillo to Las Pozas and arrived at 9:30 a.m. This magnificent concrete surrealistic garden constructed in the heart of nature's garden attracted young couples, travelers in love. Las Pozas covers acres, and you can see only a glimpse at a time. Workers are constantly cutting back vines and plants. Trails wind up the mountainside and you can hear waterfalls before you find them. Swimmers enjoy the pool under a large fall.

But it's James' imagination, which created the trails and ornamental concrete-flowers and snakes and bridges and archways and oval entrances and multilevel spiral stairways framed by fantasy columns and concrete bamboo fences that make Las Pozas a rich reward for the artist and a pleasure for all visitors.

Among waterfalls and pools, James created 36 structures on 80 acres in his private jungle garden. They appear animated by Gaudí's architectural vision and Dalí's dreams. There are Gothic arches, parabolic entryways, and columns erupting into blossoms. James added stairways and bridges that M.C. Escher might have envisioned.

Only in Mexico could one walk through this fantasy garden within nature's garden. Handrails were nonexistent. A spiral staircase led up to an overlook, a platform above an arch 6 stories high. I creep up, hugging the support column, but vertigo halted me.

I returned to earth. I took photos realizing the truth that "One picture is worth 1000 words." I walked through Las Pozas quietly savoring the aesthetic flow like a practitioner of feng shui in harmony with chi.

My only regret was that the sun was never quite right for the best of photos and the sky was pale-bright, too light for a contrasting blue against the silhouetted inspirations James created.

Ah... I must return again.

At noon I looked at my map for the Corredor de Minas (Corridor of Mines), which, like the corridor of missions would take me through another remote, steep-valley sierra. Four mining towns were possibly on the agenda, but for most of the day I'd be catching buses and making multiple transfers.

At 12:30 p.m., hot and sweating, I caught a wonderful, air-conditioned bus for La Y Griega. Step-by-step, bus-by-bus, I connected the dots from town to town in the sierra. The towns were generally small roadside commercial centers for farmers and ranchers. At no time did I wait longer than 15 minutes for a connection. On most routes, Mexico's bus system is efficient and economical. I trust to blind luck and have not yet been disrupted in my travels.

From La Y Griega to Tomechtla to Huejutla to Zacualtipan I rode the bus in comfort with pleasure.

The bus gave me a picture window view of the sierra, its jungle, prehistoric flora, ferns, vines, brush and bush, trees, deciduous and pine, few flowers, maybe due to a predominance of shade. Our route, a narrow road, was cut into steep cliffs. Yet, among this natural beauty, there was subsistence farming and cornfields. Tall green stalks were growing, generally not terraced, on 60-degree inclines.

In the valleys, along the road, wood workers displayed their merchandise: chairs, rocking horses, tables, bureaus, dinning room sets, coffee tables, all sparkling, polished and varnished to a high luster.

Early evening, I reached the roadside bus stop at Zacualtipan. I took a taxi to town, a large commercial and textile town. I checked into the Palacios Hotel and ate a light supper in their restaurant.

There was a party in the hotel. The guest of honor was celebrating his 75th birthday with friends and family and 3 mariachi bands. As soon as one band left another arrived. I listened for a while then took a walk to the main square. It was traditional, attractive, but mainly a commercial center.

Next morning I would visit mining towns. There was no need for an alarm clock. The rooster next to my hotel room was the Glen Miller King of Kikirikis (cock-a-doodle-doos). I think the rooster had perfect pitch; his cry was nearly a delight.

Expenses: Buses: $12, Taxi: $4, Meals: $21, Hotel: $24, Total: $61.

Day 18: Sierra Gorda: Mining Towns and Pachuca

I woke up early, too early for breakfast, and repeated my walk of last night in Zacualtipan. All was quiet, streets vacant, stalls in the plaza were closed, but I was in two worlds.

There is a world of supermarkets and farmers markets, modern and traditional.

Patented medicines, and herbs for making a tea for just about anything that ails you were sold in the plaza. Doctors' clinics offered ultrasound and computer analysis. New homes, broadcasting conspicuous consumption, stood across from corrugated, tin roofed shacks, which were decorated with geraniums flowers in pots lovingly cared for.

I caught an 8 a.m. bus; breakfast would be in Real del Monte, an old mining town. Looking out the bus window, I felt like I was viewing the background for the original stop-action King Kong movie. Driving the Sierra Gorda Corridor of Mining Towns, you are surrounded by a sense of the forgotten world, a primeval forest. Peering through the bus window, plants seemed like a picture book of pop-up cutouts.

There were two former mining towns along the main route Zucualtipan-Pachuca that I wanted to visit, Real del Monte, and El Chico, now a biosphere reserve, in fact the oldest in Mexico, established in 1892 by President Porfirio Diaz.

Real del Monte is famous for pastes, originally a miner's meal of meat and potatoes baked in pastry, like a turnover. Pastes are now filled with just about anything, and even the fruit filled are called pastes instead of turnovers.

The bus let me off at the roadside and I walked down hill about a half mile to Real del Monte.

Real del Monte is a Hollywood Movie Set in layout, colors, arches, hills, plaza, church and beauty. The premier paste restaurant is under the arches. I ordered the traditional meat and potatoes, plus an apple turnover and coffee. Delicious, I was stuffed for breakfast.

Silver shops, tourist wares, restaurants and a photographer's paradise are the attractions. There is a mining tour and a double-decked faux English bus for the city tour. The bus is stubby-short to navigate the steep hills and tight corners.

El Chico, the second town, with a history of silver mining, was a taxicab drive into the pine forest, which President Diaz was wise to set aside. This ecological preserve attracts family vacationers. The town is a small gem, only a few blocks in size, located on a mountain slope.

From El Chico I caught the collective taxi for Pachuca, the capital of Hidalgo State. Pachuca is a large city with a touch of colonial architecture. The collective let me off just a few blocks from the city center and symbol of Pachuca, a towering monumental clock, made by the same manufacturer as London's Big Ben in the late 1800s.

Near the clock and bell tower, a lady sitting under a red-blue-yellow umbrella for shade was selling City Tours. I was just in time, but the man in front of me bought the last 4 tickets. I told the young lady, "I'd like to take this tour and I'm willing to stand." She called to Laura, the tour guide. Laura said, "Would you mind sitting up front with me where the guide sits?" Laura would sit between the driver and myself. I saw Pachuca in an hour. I don't think I missed a thing.

Tlaxcala, the city that allied with Cortes to defeat the Aztecs, was next on my agenda.

Expenses: Bus and shared taxis: $15, Meals: $9, Hotel: $30, City Tour: Pachuca $4. Total: $58.

Day 19: Tlaxcala: Allies of Cortes

History books imply that Cortes defeated the Aztecs due to superior armor, horses, guns and the belief that Cortes was the returning god, Quetzalcoatl. The question of "deity" was quickly dismissed. He had horses, 16 and 2 of these were killed in the first battle, and he led an army of 400 men. He conquered Mexico City, a city of a quarter million, and dominated a land inhabited by over 15 million people. But it was his strategic alliance with the Tlaxcala Indians that enabled Cortes to proceed and conquer. Thousands of Tlaxcalans supported Cortes against the Aztecs and wept when he returned to Spain.

If it were not for Tlaxcala, the conquistador of Mexico might have not been named Cortes. Tlaxcalans allied with Cortes against the Aztecs. The Tlaxcalans were the most important, loyal and faithful allies of the Spanish. I doubt without their army, the bears of logistics, that Cortes could have vanquished the Aztecs in 1521.

I wanted to see this land where Cortes fought and won the loyalty of the Tlaxcalans.

Tlaxcala is the oldest colonial town in Mexico. The government seat was founded in 1524. It is considered the Cradle of a New Race, the Mestizo, the union of the Spanish with the indigenous.

I arrived a little after 9 a.m. The bus driver let me off on the outskirts and pointed out where to catch a collective taxi, a combi. I scarcely got off the bus and blinked when the combi picked me up and within minutes I was in the center of Tlaxcala at the Tourist Information booth.

I stayed at Hotel Posada San Francisco on the main square that was once a private mansion. This 19th century building has been lovingly restored. It's the place to stay with a fine restaurant, an inner patio, a bar decorated in grand style, and a beautiful, clean, inviting pool just a few feet from my room.

Tlaxcala remains a colonial jewel in the mountains. A fountain donated by a Spanish King is the off-center piece in its plaza. Unlike many Mexican plazas surrounded by arched portals, outdoor dining is encouraged. Two coffee shops also pleased me as I often wish for a casual place to sit and contemplate when in Mexico and find very few.

I picked up a city map. There were 22 sites, museums, churches, and historic buildings to see. Most of the interesting places in a colonial town are near the original center and the tourist, with map in hand, can walk and visit at his own pace. During the day I visited 18 of the 22.

I pushed on the door of the Museum of Memory. The door was open but the museum, I was quickly told, was closed. Of the 4 museums, only Tlaxcala's Regional Museum was open.

Walking the streets of Tlaxcala, I followed the paths of history. Vivid, radiantly vibrant murals by the artist Desiderio Hernandez Xochitiootzin outlined Tlaxcala's history in the Palacio Municipal. I huffed and puffed my way uphill to the Santuario de Ocotlán, a wedding-cake-white, spectacular baroque church honoring the Virgin. It has been the site of pilgrimage since 1541 when the Virgin appeared here. And I stopped at the Capilla de Pocito de Agua (Chapel of Small Well) where the water is considered sacred and miraculous.

The Antigua Casa de Piedra (Ancient House of Stone), once a private mansion, is now Hotel San Francisco, a fine luxury hotel.

The Capilla de San Francisco (Chapel of St. Francis), part of one of the earliest monasteries, housed the original stone baptismal basin where Four Tlaxcalan Chiefs were baptized upon conversion to Christianity.

Tlaxcala honors the Chiefs and also Xicotencatl, who tried to rouse his people against the Spaniards.

Expenses: Bus and taxis: $6, Meals: $30, Hotel $75, Laundry $7, Total: $116.

Next stop: Puebla, the City of Tiles. Less than two hours away, Puebla was only a $5 bus ride from Tlaxcala.

Day 20: Puebla and Popotillo

Puebla: Mexico's 4th largest city claims to have been inspired by angels. Truly, Puebla abounds with architectural masterpieces and beauty is commonplace. It is an outdoor art show. I gawk, look up and around, and I seem to be alone in my astonishment. The map tells me there are over 1200 colonial and architecturally splendid buildings, tiled and decorated, located in the center of Puebla. Pedestrians look straight ahead and go about their business. But my senses are dazzled.

Puebla is the home of mole, the tasty specialty at Fonda de Santa Clara, and the China Poblana, the traditional outfit Mexican waitresses often wear. Mole (sauce) is a concoction of chocolate and chile, spicy not sweet. It's a brown sauce generally served on turkey or chicken, and it is considered Mexico's national dish. The China Poblana, the scooped neck, bare-shouldered blouse, with a flouncy skirt, is the national costume, counterpart in Mexican films to the silver spangled charro outfit.

Puebla's colonial center, founded in 1531, designed and built on a grid, is flat and easy on the legs, ideal for walking. It has the flavor of a European city. But I favor lounging under the arches, reading a newspaper, sipping coffee, and enjoying the view of the plaza. I listen to the bullhorn demonstrators protesting a grievance at the Volkswagen plant, yet I come away with the feeling that Puebla is a city of tranquility.

A Personal Quest:

Years ago I purchased a "painting" made of broom straw in Guanajuato. I call it a painting because that's what it looks like, but up close you see that it's really a mosaic of colored, dyed straw. The artist said, "I'm from Puebla. It's a family tradition and we're about the only artists to use dyed broom straw."

So here I am in Puebla trying to explain the artwork I'm looking for and I get blank stares. I'm fumbling in Spanish. I explain simply but people think I'm interested in a broom or straw. I just confuse everyone.

I speak with Ruben Ibarra, the afternoon clerk at the hotel, and I ask him, "Is there a family in Puebla, artists who use broom straw? I'd like to find them." Ruben, is 36, has a degree from Universidad de Las Americas in Hotel Management and the personality of a host.

"You mean popodillo?" he asks. "There's a lady who makes them at the Casa del Artesano. And there is a shop," and he starts to flip through the telephone directory.

Shortly, he's on the phone telling me that Mary Capilla is the artist at Casa del Artesano but it's after 6 p.m. and she's gone home. Next, he's talking to Amabilia Meneses who owns a small store. She sells popodillo, embroidered dresses, costume jewelry, wooden toys and folk art, a variety of handmade items. Her shop is closed. She's at home now, but she tells Ruben that she'd be happy to show us her merchandise if we would like to come to her house.

Ruben calls for a taxi and gives the driver a note with her complete address: neighborhood, street, name of her building and apartment number, plus her telephone number in case we get lost.

The taxi took me into the backside of Puebla. Amabilia lived in a crowded working section of town. The taxi driver found the neighborhood and the street but couldn't locate the address or the building. He stopped and asked. He was directed north into a dead-end street. It was great to know I'm not the only one who gets lost in Mexico.

We turned around and asked again. We were pointed in the right direction but we couldn't find a single number. The driver stopped at a small grocery and asked. The grocer came out and pointed to a cluster of buildings. We were close, but still lost. Nearby a cluster of teenagers was playing basketball. The taxi driver stopped again and asked. One of the boys ran ahead and pointed toward our destination.

As the taxi rolled to a halt, Amabilia opened her door. She was waiting for us. She lived up to her name, "Amiable." She was short, squatty and wore one of the embroidered dresses that her shop sold. It was loose fitting with a very colorful green-amber flower design. Her living room was arranged for us. Wooden toys, bobble-head-bobble-winged turkeys, a variety of children's dresses brightly embroidered, some charm bracelets, and at least a dozen soft dolls looking like Raggedy Ann with straw blond hair were arranged on chairs, a coffee table, and they covered the sofa. The dolls were the only blonds in Puebla. But there were no popodillos and that's what I had come for.

Amabilia said that she had popodillos, just a couple, in her shop, but she wanted to show us all her merchandise and maybe we'd like something. This nice lady then gave me a bobble-head-bobble-winged turkey. It was the last item I would have ever considered buying from her inventory. But I accepted.

Amabilia sparkled. She wrapped up the turkey and called for her daughter to bring a plastic bag from the kitchen. She showed off her wares. Mary Kay could learn a lot from Amabilia. We were at a Tupperware Party without plastic. And of course one cannot accept a gift in these circumstances without making a purchase.

So as I unwrapped my gifts when I arrived back home, there were two soft dolls with blond hair made in Mexico for my granddaughters. And on my shelf I placed a treasure, a bobble-head-bobble-winged turkey. As a gift, it somehow became precious.

Expenses: Bus-Taxi: $6, hotel $60, meals $18. Total: $84.

The Yucatan, Museuems and Haciendas: Days 21-25. Cordoba, Coatzacoalcos, Tuxtla Gutierrez, San Cristobal de Las Casas

Day 21: Cordoba: Dancing in the Park: Stage Three: Yucatan, Pyramids and Haciendas

I'm back on the road, ready to complete the epic Bus Journey Across Mexico.

United Airlines flew non-stop from San Francisco to Mexico City. I zipped in and out of the airport, and caught the bus for Puebla, Mexico's tiled architectural jewel.

I gave Puebla a wink, then left this beautiful, Christmas-ready, poinsettia-decorated city with its warm weather and blue skies.

I hopped an ADO (Autobuses de Oriente) bus, First Class, at the CAPU Station, sat next to Maria de Los Angeles and chatted all the way to Cordoba. She told me she had visited Las Vegas and watched, "Chinos bet $100 chips as if they were grains of rice." She favored new President Calderon. "He was a good student, he's educated," she said.

We left Puebla's pleasant weather and blue skies, drove southeast into the mountains' fog and Cordoba's mist and drizzle.

I am reading very old guidebooks. Mexico is building highways faster than I'm updating maps. I thought I was in for a 4-hour-plus bus ride through winding mountains from Puebla to Cordoba. But the ADO bus zipped across bridges and through tunnels. I looked out the window over deep, lush green valleys. I wondered how apprehensive or confident the Spanish conquistadors felt marching in this mountainous New World. They must have believed in destiny and in rewards to tackle this terrain.

The looming Orizaba Mountain was profiled against a blue sky with its perfect peak capped in white looking like a 17,000-foot snow cone.

The ADO bus rolled on. This modern highway avoided the old wrenching, curving 4-hour tummy turner. Fog engulfed us. Orizaba disappeared, the driver slowed to 20 mph, we arrived in Cordoba, late, in a drizzle.

I bought a taxi ticket from the machine at the Bus Terminal. A taxi voucher eliminates hassles with drivers. I took the next cab and asked the driver to take me to Cordoba's center. We chatted about hotels just off the plaza and he suggested Hotel Bello. "It's a businessman's hotel," my driver said dryly. "Oh, what's the main industry in Cordoba?" I asked. The taxi driver said, "Coffee and sugar cane." He didn't elaborate or want to talk.

Hotel Bello charged $41 a night, offered free Internet for guests in the lobby and a nice restaurant on the main floor. It was modern and freshly painted, but the shower pressure was low and lukewarm. After a bus ride I would have liked a hot shower massage.

Right away I got lucky. I settled in my room and from the balcony I could hear distant music. The plaza was only a block away. I walked over. A group of musicians was warming up, sounding like a college band. Folding chairs were being set up in the colonial plaza in front of the fountain across from the Municipal (City Hall).

It was the Municipal Band. They played every Thursday 6-8 p.m. Tonight was danzón, a rhythmic, formal dance, which fit the colonial setting.

The band played and dancers brought their partners forward. It seemed more like Hemingway's romantic Cuba than Mexico. Elders danced and the young watched. I asked a couple, "Why aren't young people dancing?" He answered," It's difficult. A routine must be followed." Elderly couples were out in force; ladies dressed in Sunday elegance with smart dancing shoes.

I took photos of a lively elderly couple, she in silver shoes, he dressed in all white and wearing a white Panama hat. The pictures were beautiful. Immediately, I took my camera across the plaza to the Fujiphoto shop and asked to have three digital prints made, 5x7.

A computer whiz cropped the photos, and then zapped out the pictures in less than a half an hour for $2. I presented the gift to the surprised, delighted couple. They immediately showed them to their family.

Light showers threatened. With the first drops of rain, the band members picked up their chairs and moved under the City Hall archway, the portales that ran the entire length of the building. Once rearranged, the dancing continued until 8 p.m.

The rain stopped and my brain went dead. I found a table under the portales and ordered dinner. Two mariachis walked by in green charro outfits. I asked where they were playing. A big fellow said, "Right here, at your request." I asked the price and he said, "150 pesos per song."

It's been a while since I engaged mariachis, but with all the time I spend in Mexico, you wouldn't think I' d drop a decimal in the exchange rate. I'm thinking, "Good price, I can afford a dozen songs." So I lined him up with 11 songs, wrote them down on a napkin and figured 1650 pesos.

The two mariachis walked off to gather the rest on the band and a female singer. My brain started to calculate, "That's a large group for the price." Then it struck me; I was thinking $1.50 per song. I had accepted an offer of $15 per song, and they would be expecting $165.

When the big guy came back reinforced by 8 mariachis, I checked my wallet, felt dumb and told him we'd have to stop at $100 or I wouldn't be able to pay for supper. He offered to play 7 songs, so I got a small discount. I wondered how loudly my old clients would laugh, enjoying the irony of a retired financial adviser who couldn't correctly convert pesos to dollars.

The band started off with "La Negra", the traditional mariachis opening song. I enjoyed the music, but the diners under the portales didn't seem to care. This was danzón music country.

I was sitting in front of Hotel Zavavello. It's historic and the reason for my short visit. Here in 1821, Don Juan O'Donoju, Viceroy of Spain signed the final accord with Mexico's General Don Agustin Iturbide, which acknowledged Mexico's independence.

The two men sealed the pact by going to church, and after mass, here in Hotel Zavavello, O'Donoju said, "I believe it will be an easy thing to untie the knot without breaking the connection."

I wandered around the old hotel built in 1697. It seemed little changed from that historic period.

Expenses: Bus $14, Taxi $2, Meals $28, Hotel Bello $41. Total: $85

Day 22: Coatzacoalcos

I was weary when the ADO bus pulled into Coatzacoalcos. I had traded an intermittent, light drizzle in Cordoba for a tropical downpour in Coatzacoalcos.

In the morning I had lingered, walking and sightseeing in Cordoba. The Christmas decorations had caught my attention. Cordoba was wrapped in red. The plaza was lined with poinsettias. And early in the morning municipal employees in red uniform jackets milled around the plaza chatting in small groups with one another before work.

In their red outfits, in small clusters, the employees seemed to be human imitations of the poinsettias in the park.

My leisurely morning cost me. When I went to the bus station and looked at the departure schedule I said, out loud to myself in English, "Bad luck". The clerk smiled.

I had forgotten to check the departure schedule for Coatzacoalcos when I arrived yesterday, and I missed my bus by 5 minutes.

Most routes offer frequent service, in fact I count on it and rarely worry about departures, but today five minutes cost me a 2-hour wait. I told the clerk I'd take the next bus. She checked the schedule and said, "I'd recommend that you take the 11:40 ADO bus, it leaves a half hour later, but it's nearly direct, only one stop, and you'll arrive an hour earlier."

Constantly I've found the clerks at the Central Terminals to be alert and helpful. This bright clerk took thoughtfulness one-step further. "Leave later, arrive earlier," sounded good to me.

It also proved that travelers should always bring an entertaining thick book for the trip. I had purchased Charles C. Mann's best selling 1491, A History of the Americas before Columbus. Two hours were well-spent reading and relaxing in the comfortable lobby.

The ADO bus pulled out just before noon. After a few miles we left the city and entered the dual, 4-lane, center-divided toll road. The road was a black ribbon that cut across an endless green semitropical landscape. The driver held a steady 55 mph as we passed coconut-oil palm trees, seas of sugar cane, citrus orchards and green fields with white cattle grazing.

I had seat number 4, front passenger window. It gave me both the highway and the window view. My seatmate introduced himself, then promptly set the seat in recline, closed his eyes and dozed off.

In the distance, I could see there was a small town. The town itself was invisible. Rich, thick green woods, tall brush and vegetation obscured details of the town, but like an atoll in this green sea, a church tower and dome stood out.

The bus rushed, bobbed and waved on the highway. The windshield ploughed the humid air and accumulated a specked abundance of dead insects.

When we left Cordoba the sky glowed grey, but as the bus traveled south the glow darkened, then disappeared. Black rain began, first falling lightly, and then pelting us with huge drops.

My seatmate woke up. I asked why he was traveling and what was his profession.

His name was Guillermo Contreras and he manufactured perfume. "How do you make perfume?" I asked. "Water, alcohol, and aroma," Guillermo said. "I buy concentrate aroma. There are about 100 different fragrances." Guillermo enjoyed business. He used 8 distributors and counted on 500 clients.

From the bus station, in the rain, I caught a taxi to Coatzacoalcos. I wanted to be in the center of town, but in this case I'd be near the port. I asked the cabbie to suggest a hotel. He took me to Valverde. It was reasonable, near the port where a cluster of restaurants offered good meals and an ocean view.

Coatzacoalcos was spread out, a commercial port. Oil and cattle were principal exports. On this rainy day I saw no reason to stay. The most attractive sight was the city bus with a stylized Quetzalcoatl (Feathered Serpent) logo on the side.

Expenses: Meals $21, Taxis $4, Bus $27, Hotel $55. Total: $107.

Day 23: Tuxtla Gutierrez, Marimba Museum

My map, 2000 vintage, didn't show the new toll highway from Coatzacoalcos to Tuxtla Gutierrez that cut the time and distance in half. I was told that it was a beautiful, scenic route, but "El camino es muy feo," (That's an ugly road).

I went to bed puzzled with the words "ugly road" describing a new toll road on my mind.

I caught the bus for Tuxtla Gutierrez in the dark, at 5 a.m. and found that "ugly," was the right adjective.

The new toll road was already worn out, pockmarked. Heavy oil service trucks had beaten the highway into a pothole obstacle course.

Juan Carlos, the bus driver, enjoyed the challenge, swerving the bus, like a kid on a mission playing with a Game Boy and earning points for every missed pothole. Still, time and distance were saved versus the old route.

The bus climbed into mountains and we looked over lakes and rivers. We crossed Grijalva River. It was cold and I fished out my sweater form my Cal bag. Profuse vegetation with broad-leafed plants and vines vied with one another for growing space.

The bus descended into the Chiapas Valley. Blue skies, puffy white clouds and warm weather returned.

From the terminal I hailed a cab and said, "I want to go the center." I asked for an economical hotel that he might suggest. "Hotel del Carmen," he said.

It was the best taxi recommendation I'd had in years. Hotel del Carmen greeted me with friendly employees and tasteful décor. It was located 2 blocks from the park where marimba music played nightly. In the hotel lobby, red poinsettias and a green Christmas tree cheered guests.

I went to register and checked the room rates. Single rooms were listed twice. Like Coca-Cola, Hotel del Carmen offered Single Classic at $28 and Single Premium for $38.

This seemed strange, as the hotel was exceptionally attractive. I asked, "What's the difference?" Mary, the hotel clerk said, "All the rooms are the same. Premium has air-conditioning." I didn't think that would be a great inconvenience in December. I took the "Single Classic," economical room.

Even stranger, none of the rooms had hot water for washing up, but all showers had hot water. I marveled with curiosity as to why such an attractive hotel lacked a hot water connection to the bathroom sink.

After a 5-hour bus ride, I was ready for a walk so I strolled to the Tourist Office located in the nearby park. The young lady gave me a map, mentioned the Marimba Museum and circled Instituto de las Artesanias, Centro de Distribucion. Both were within walking distance. In fact, most of the monuments are along Avenida Principal, so a walk broke sightseeing into pleasant stops.

My curiosity was piqued by the Marimba Museum. I always thought of marimba and Veracruz as synonyms. The museum charged $5, somewhat high for a limited museum in Mexico, but the price included Benjamin Escobedo, an exceptionally well-informed and enthusiastic guide.

The museum tour started with the introduction and evolution of the marimba from Africa. Benjamin explained how African slaves adapted new-world materials and were influenced by Mayans. He detailed the evolution, the history, composers, players and makers of the marimba. Computers offered music and photos of performers. Then Benjamin took me into the workshop where a full time restorer was working on one of the great classic instruments I had seen in old photos.

I felt like I had an advanced course in marimba history and instrumentology. I offered Benjamin a tip. But he absolutely, palm up, turned me down. "I'm a municipal employee. I earn a salary," he said.

I thanked him, yet his knowledge and enthusiasm still made me feel indebted.

The weather was warm. I took off my undershirt and walked down Avenida Principal. I passed many attractive restaurants and a few quality hotels. I stopped and took photos of an outdoor mural, an artistic mosaic history of Chiapas, on the side of the Universidad de Ciencias y Artes de Chiapas. I climbed to the top of the Morelos Park with its monument dedicated to the Mexican flag.

Then, after catching my breath, I continued down Avenida Principal to Instituto de las Artesanias. Although only handcrafts from the State of Chiapas are on display and for sale, the collection is immense and of the highest quality.

Shoppers beware! Traveling by bus forces economical shopping but brings regrets for the items one can't purchase and carry home.

Hotel del Carmen was near the park. Music and dancing in the park were an every evening joy in Tuxtla Gutierrez. The young watched and listened. Older couples put on a graceful and sometimes energetic show.

The band started at 6 p.m. A female voice over the loudspeaker announced the program, then added, "An evening of romantic music, love is in the air, he's on the loose, careful, you may fall in love."

The marimba band played danzón for the first hour, took a break, and then mixed the dance music: salsa, mambo, cha-cha, and cumbia. It was a pleasure to watch and listen.

A young university couple came over to watch and stood by me. We talked. He was studying civil engineering, she communications.

Tuxtla is Mayan for rabbit. This once must have been a valley overrun with hares. Gutierrez was both a general and governor of Chiapas. Often Mexican cities honor their history by adding a hero's name to the city.

Expenses: Taxis $2, Bus $16, Meals $20, Hotel Del Carmen $27, Total: $65.

Day 24: Tuxtla Gutierrez, City Tour, Zoo, Sumidero Canyon

The next day, Hotel del Carmen was booked for a tour and I had to move. Santa Maria Hotel, in front of the park, was nearby. Its rate was 50% more than Hotel del Carmen and 50% less attractive. It was clean and convenient.

I had been told, "You must visit Tuxtla Gutierrez." But the enthusiasm was not for the city, but for the zoo and Sumidero Canyon. Both were a surprise to me.

I signed up for an all-day tour and in the morning I had my own private guide for the zoological garden. Roberto, my guide, was pleasant and assumed I would enjoy the zoo without commentary. His lack of enthusiasm was in contrast with yesterday's guide Benjamin at the Marimba Museum.

But if I asked, Roberto was helpful. He had a keen eye, spotted animals in the trees and bush and pointed them out to me.

The Miguel Alvarado del Toro Zoo was very large, animal concerned, and displayed an incredible diversity. Roberto said, "It's the greatest number of species for any zoo in North America." Spiders and snakes were so well represented that I felt creepy about walking in the jungle.

When we finished the zoo tour, Roberto drove me to a number of lookouts over Sumidero Canyon.

The vertical drops, sheer walls, and narrow canyon were the result of a rift in the earth's surface. I peered down, over 1000 feet from cliff to river.

A restaurant with an incredible view was perched on the highest overlook.

From the heights, we retraced part of the road and headed for the depths of the canyon. Robert turned me over to a river launch boat company and said he'd wait the two hours while I took a 15-mile ride between the narrow canyon walls to the hydroelectric dam that made boating possible.

I joined an international group, 2 Germans, 2 Finns, 2 Spaniards, 1 Swede, 1 Mexican and myself.

The Swedish man and the Mexican lady were newlyweds. Both were close to 40. I asked, "How did you meet?" The Mexican lady said, "Over the Internet. My husband is the second best psychic in Sweden." They disagreed about how long they had emailed one another until they met in person.

Romance was cultivated email by email and the Swede flew to Puebla where the lady lived. They were a very affectionate couple. They claimed that they were soul mates and lovers in a past life. The Internet had reintroduced them and they were experiencing the joy and happiness of a second life together.

Our helmsman revved the outboard motor and we raced between the canyon walls. He slowed, circled and pointed out crocodiles.

Then we neared a rookery of black vultures, hundreds of them had taken up squatters rights on the white limestone riverbank. They paid us no attention. White on black was an eerie picture.

We cruised toward the hydroelectric dam. We stopped to view natural features, a cave, and an outcropping looking like the face of a crucified Christ. A natural spring trickled down the canyon wall and watered a large moss growth that stood out on the wall looking like a multistory Christmas tree.

Near the dam, two flocks of birds circled and dived for food. There were so many birds that the scene appeared prehistoric. The roar of the outboard motor drove them off. Our guide stopped the launch, explained the history of the dam and mentioned that it is the largest producer of electric energy in Mexico.

Sumidero canyon is a wonder. It's hard to say if it's more spectacular from above looking down below, or from below looking towards the sky.

Expenses: Tour $40, Meals $23, Hotel Santa Maria $43, Total $106.

Day 25: San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas

Next morning I was up and on the colectivo van (mini bus) to San Cristobal de Las Casas at 6 a.m.

San Cristobal is Mayan country. Indigenous folk, dressed in bright blues, greens, orange, yellows and reds, are a major percentage of the population. Ancient artistic hippies from the 60s have also made San Cristobal their home. Europeans too, crowd the streets; they come looking for culture. Americans are few; they prefer beaches.

San Cristobal was a checkerboard of colonial mansions converted to hotels, coffee shops, Internet cafes, indigenous handcraft stores, amber shops, and restaurants. Hotels offered the best prices I've seen in years.

From the van drop-off I walked towards the center of town checking hotels and rates. Close to downtown Hotel La Noria seemed especially nice and reasonable. I checked in, left my bag and walked to the Tourist Office.

The Tourist Office provided me with suggestions and a map. My first visit was to the Museo Ambar (Amber Museum). The museum guide said, "The amber mine is about a four hours drive to San Cristobal de Las Casas." The museum was modest in size but had a variety of pieces, large and small. I enjoyed the short presentation that explained how to tell the difference between the real and imitation amber.

The museum guide said that glass and plastic were often sold on the street and she showed us examples. They looked attractive to me. My eye could not tell real from fake.

She held a piece of amber under black light and it phosphoresced. Plastic and glass did not react. "But if you don't have a black light," she said, "you can judge. Amber is warm not cold like glass or plastic. It has an aroma, spells like resin. It burns easily. Tiny insects are embedded, not large ones. Often you need to view them with a microscope. And in pure water, amber won't float, add some salt and it may. Rub amber and you'll create static electricity."

I left the Amber Museum and followed the Tourist Office map past a church and plaza and headed to the Museo Maya de Medicina. Traditional medicine, both herbs and spells are important in Chiapas. Herbs cure the body, spells the mind, it's psychic medicine.

The museum was a large complex. There were attractive dioramas of healers and patients. Plants and herbs were being cultivated in the garden and each variety was marked with a description: the plant, parts used, and cure for a particular disease. There was an herb pharmacy and a bookstore.

I looked at my map and chose the next nearest destination, Na-Bolom (House of the Jaguar). Na-Bolom was the private home of Franz Blom, an archeologist, and is filled, room-by-room, with his personal collection. It is now a Study and Cultural Center.

There was a notice on a corkboard. The public was invited to dine in the original dining room, but reservations were required. I walked back to the entrance and made a reservation. It was a fixed- price menu and dinner was at 7 p.m.

Dinner was the highlight of the day.

I sat at a table for 28, and I dined alone! When I returned at 7 p.m., two cooks and a waiter were ready for me. I was their only customer. The waiter set the table for two just for effect, blue and red place settings. I sat at the head, well on the side, at the end, of the long empty table. I had a warm fire and a Mayan wall tapestry for company.

Fixed Menu: vegetable soup, tossed iceberg salad (large enough for a family) with a secret sauce, two slices of crumbly bread, frozen butter, had to cut and mash the butter so it would spread, mashed potatoes without gravy and sliced beef. I ordered one margarita and got two. There were two pastries for dessert.

Bill: $18.

Expenses: Van $4, Meals $27, Hotel La Noria $30, Total: $61.

The Epic Journey Continues: Days 26-32. San Juan Chamula, Palenque, Edzna

Day 26: San Cristobal de Las Casas, San Juan Chamula

This is an intensive trip. I'm traveling faster than I can write, no time to see or digest it all. I'm on the run from 6 a.m. to midnight. It's good for my health. I don't snack and I sleep better.

Today I signed up for a half-day tour, a visit to Chamula, which has become a Mecca due to its blend of pagan and Catholic rites. Victor, our guide, knew as much as any anthropologist about the people. He even spent 2 years with subcomandante Marcos, not living with him, but providing assistance and liaison to the Spanish newspaper correspondent Valentino Diaz.

Chamula is 6 miles and centuries apart from San Cristobal. At the edge of town, we stopped at a cemetery silhouetted by a burned out shell of a church that stood silent in back of the graveyard. Many graves were brown, covered with pine needles. Victor said, "Pine needles connect people with the earth. In homes needles are spread on the floor."

Victor explained why the church was a forlorn skeleton. He said, "Too many pine needles, too many candles, and too much liquor."

He pointed out the crosses in the cemetery, "White for innocent children, blue or green are for adults, black signifies old age, and the ones with rounded tops, those identify a Mayan."

I mentioned syncretism. Victor took offense and said, "Son Catholicos! Con sus propios gustos. (They are Catholics! With their own preferences.)"

We drove into Chamula and parked near Templo San Juan. We entered the church. It was brilliantly lit with thousands of candles. Photographs were forbidden.

There were large pictures of saints around the church and many groups seated on the floor were clustered here and there, conducting their own services. Shamans and healers had replaced priests.

It was a special province. A resident priest was not allowed. Victor said, "Only visiting priests are allowed to come for baptisms." Here John the Baptist and saints were venerated.

Believers sat crossed legged on the floor and were staring and self-confessing into mirrors. Shamans conducted rituals with live chickens. Evil spirits were coaxed from the ill and suffering into a chicken, as a scapegoat. Later the chicken is strangled. There were traditional herbs, Mayan medicines, and psychic cures.

Coca Cola bottles stood out incongruently. Victor said, "Worshipers drink Coke and Tequila and bring food. The food and drink nourishes the gods and saints. Mayans believe in reincarnation and the gods passing through need energy for their long journeys. Coke helps the believer to burp out, to purify himself from evil spirits."

We left the church. Victor said, "Take a walk through the open-air market. It's very colorful. We'll meet at the van in 30 minutes. Then drive to Zincanta for lunch."

Expenses: Tour: Chamula, Zincanta $15, Meals $24, Hotel La Noria $30, Total: $69.

Day 27: Agua Azul, Misol-Ha, Palenque

There was a winding mountainous, jungle highway, between San Cristobal and Palenque, where Nature had created two spectacular water cascades, Agua Azul (Blue Water) and Misol-Ha (Water Falls).

These two wonderlands, white water churning over boulders, with torrents falling, spray rising, are missed if one takes a bus. You need to stop and make a side trip to enjoy the nature trails that follow the rivers in the forest shade that lead to calm, still water pools with sandy beaches. It's a paradise that entices swimmers, mostly stoic Europeans determined to ignore the chilly water for the memory and a beautiful photo framed by green jungle flora, broad leafed plants, a mix of tall and spreading trees, with a background of a cascading white water curtain.

The bright, cheerful young clerk at the Tourist Office in Tuxtla suggested Tratamundo (Globetrotters) Tours and Travel. She said, "They will take you to Agua Azul, Misol-Ha and Palenque, and if you wish they will drop you off in Palenque." That sounded like "two birds one stone."

The cost of a direct bus ticket from Tuxtla to Palenque was $12. The traveler would still have to taxi out to Palenque's Mayan ruins and miss Agua Azul and Misol-Ha. Tratamundo offered all three sites and a drop off in the town of Palenque for $28.

I signed up with Tratamundo. Rafael, the driver, said, "It will be a long day, 210 kilometers and 210 topes (speed bumps that slow traffic passing through villages)."

Palenque, once lost and buried in jungle overgrowth, was excavated in the '40s. In 1952, Alberto Ruz Lhuillie, an archeologist, was curious about a slab floor inside the Temple of Inscriptions atop the pyramid. He removed the floor and discovered a corbelled arched tunnel. The tunnel led from the top of the pyramid to below a ground level tomb. Here he found the Tomb of Pakal sealed in a massive richly carved stone sarcophagus.

A photo of Pakal's sarcophagus lid was used on the cover of Erich von Daniken's book, Chariots of the Gods. Von Daniken hypothesized that ancient astronauts helped build the pyramids.

Inspired by Von Daniken's description, I took my family to Palenque in June 1975. We boarded a train in Mexico City and jostled to Palenque on a train filled with soldiers. It was a 24-hour ride. We were privileged to ride in old Pullman sleeper cars. The soldiers had to sleep on non-reclining wooden slatted seats. Now the roads are better, buses excellent, and there are no more passenger trains.

On the day of our visit in 1975, my family of 6 accounted for most of the visitors who came to see and explore Palenque. My children, then ages 8 and 6, and I climbed the pyramid and descended the narrow, slippery, seeping-water staircase to Pakal tomb.

Carelessly, as I opened my camera bag, a battery dropped out and bounced passed the protective grating, landing next to Pakal sarcophagus, out of reach.

Temples and courtyards were adorned with Mayan bas-reliefs, which were telling stories and giving evidence to their greatness. The Palace, with a square top, looked like a Spanish church tower without a bell.

Today, I was surprised to find Palenque well maintained, a visitor's center, but sections roped off. The pyramid is off limits to climbers, and the entrance to Pakal's tomb is once again sealed.

Tratamundo dropped me off in the town of Palenque. I was happy to avoid the three-hour ride back to Tuxtla. It was late, but there was still light. In the main square they were preparing for the celebration of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Expenses: Taxi $2, tour bus $28, meals $20, Hotel Cathedral $17, entrances fees $4. Total: $71.

Day 28: Yaxchilán and Bonampak

STP (Servicios Turisticos de Palenque) picked me up at 6 a.m. for a trip back in time, to a Lost World. We had a long day ahead. Our destinations: Yaxchilán and Bonampak.

This was European backpack country, few Americans, but today my seatmate was Deborah, a health benefits administrator from Wisconsin, who was traveling alone. We were a mixed group, English, Spanish, Italian, Mexican, and a German, mostly couples. Europeans seek cultural adventures, and Mexico is "land exotic" to them.

STP headed out of town. Our first stop would be breakfast. I mentioned to the driver, "Looks like a new road." "It's the Marcos Highway," he said. "The government built this road after Marcos led the Chiapas uprising. And the highway opened up tourism to Bonampak, which was only accessible by light plane before. There are still no paved roads to Yaxchilán. We have to take a river launch, 14 miles up the Usumacinta River (River of Monkeys)."

We stopped for breakfast. It was now light, the sky a brilliant blue, the jungle a rich emerald green. It was humid but not hot. We got back into our van for a short drive to Mexico's most voluminous river and looked across the river at Guatemala. Slender launches, more like bullets than boats, maybe 4 feet wide and 20 feet long with outboard motors, were tied up to an improvised wharf. We were given life vests, and we sat on benches facing each other. A palm-arched canopy protected us from the sun.

Our pilot started the engine and we raced full throttle west, gliding over the smooth flowing river.

We passed a Guatemalan military camp. The river snaked, but our pilot straightened his course by cutting across the river's centerline, so we zigzagged back and forth across Mexico and Guatemala's frontier.

I didn't know what to expect of Yaxchilán. It was new to me. I asked our guide, "What does Yaxchilán mean?" "Place of the green stones, jadeite," he said. "Precious stones."

The pilot slowed and turned. He pointed out a crocodile and then revved the engine again. He cut the engine and we could see our landing site. He let the nose of the launch glide into the soft sandy riverbank and we entered a Lost World.

Other Mayan complexes, temples, ball courts appear nearly new, having been renovated by archeologists, but as I walked the trail to the Yaxchilán complex I felt like a member of the scouting party in the original King Kong movie entering a forgotten world.

Everywhere, I stepped on stones held tight by roots. I looked at the jungle flora, large leafed plants, vines, everything green and shaded. There was a racket of unseen howler monkeys in the distance, but near the temples and stone monuments with irregular stone steps, 5 spider monkeys fretted overhead and dropped leaves on our group.

We were explorers. There was not a tourist bus or road in sight.

I climbed the highest pyramid. The steps were uneven, irregular and slick. A hill rose beyond the top of the temple. I suspected archeologists have more work ahead.

I looked down over the ball court, ruins, and a stele, the tallest in Mexico. Except for the immediate area, all was jungle canopy. I wondered if once the jungle was slashed and burned and planted in corn, beans and squash.

We left this Lost World, retraced the river route and headed for Bonampak.

Bonampak was now open to the casual traveler. The airfield was a strip cleared in the jungle, where an abandoned, derelict light plane marks the old landing field. I asked the guide about the plane. "The motor. No good. And flights aren't profitable since the highway. So when it broke, they left it."

"Sounds like United Airlines," I said. But he didn't laugh.

Colorful murals attract visitors. "The best in Mexico," said my guide. "No flash. They will take your camera. No accidents accepted." Two guards watched over us and we were not permitted to carry our backpacks or shoulder bags inside the small temples. Although there were protective barriers, they did not wish to risk accidental careless scratches from eager visitors.

I looked at the murals' bright colors. They told a story. There was a parade of lords and prisoners, bloodletting, torture and sacrifice.

Expenses: Tour, meals included, $60, fees $4, Hotel Cathedral $17. Total: $81.

Day 29: Campeche: The New is Old

Days are hot and humid outside. But the mornings are cool. Getting dressed, I debated whether to wear both a t-shirt and a long sleeve shirt on the bus. I arrived a at the bus station a little late, but just in time to grab one of the last 3 seats at 7 a.m. on the ADO bus for Campeche, a 6-hour ride. Great luck, there was a window seat, snagged it, then dozed nearly the whole way, missing the scenery.

Once aboard the bus, the driver revved the engine, on came the air-conditioning and I had to get my sweater out of my luggage. And for added symbolism, the movie on the bus was the March of the Penguins.

Campeche is not the dreary port town I visited 31 years ago when the ocean frontage was merely beachside rubble and grey was the dominant city color.

Mexico has discovered its architectural heritage and the beauty of illumination. Restoration is an industry: archeological, Spanish Colonial, Porfiato haciendas. Campeche, state and city, has invested much capital in restoration projects.

Campeche is now graced with an attractive 3-mile malecon, wide curving, walking, skating, bicycling and jogging path that follows the natural shoreline. Modern sculptures, rest stops and miramars are attractively placed along the strip.

Campeche is a UNESCO World Heritage City. The original fortress colonial city was completely walled, protected by massive stone ramparts, towers and cannons to shield Campeche from pirates.

Much of the original wall, six sided, in the form of a boat with two bows, still stands guard, cupping Campeche's colonial center. Arched entrances are an attractive feature.

You can walk a section of the ramparts. A gatekeeper charges a fee, locks you in and says, "There is a bell over the entrance, when you're ready, ring the bell." From the ramparts, you view the city, and amazingly you're looking over and behind the city street walls, and so much terrain is abandoned and neglected. There are acres within the old city ready for renewal and development.

When UNESCO added Campeche to its World Heritage list in 1999, the city was reborn in the past. It took two years to remove all telephone poles, overhead lines and cables and bury them underground. Building facades were painted pastel blues, greens, rose, yellow and white and the original decorative elements were emphasized. The library, once the City Hall, was completely restored and the portales illuminated.

Street lamps hung from wrought iron supports attached to stone walls. Signs no longer protruded out into the streets. Buildings' facades were easy to see and appreciate.

The cathedral was also cleaned and illuminated and the central park restored. A new kiosk was built in the center of the square. Outdoor tables and service are offered under its protective roof.

Bordering the central park, Casa Numero 6, once a splendid house with arabesque arches, had fallen into decay. Over the years it had served a variety of commercial uses, including a cantina and a furniture store. It is now the Centro Cultural. Pre-restoration photos look more like a Mayan ruin than a city mansion. Today artists perform here and downstairs rooms display period furniture.

What's new in Campeche is, "The Old." Restorations stand out. Fortifications that once protected the city with cannons are now museums with Mayan artifacts.

Thirty years ago, Uxmal, Chichen Itza and Palenque were the featured archeological sites. Now the Yucatan is peppered with "new" sites and Edzna, which I had never heard of, has a sound and light program on Friday nights. Haciendas have been restored and converted into luxury hotels, and colonial churches are being refurbished. The old is becoming the new.

In 1975 we stayed at El Señorial Hotel, originally the Carvajal Family Mansion. Now it is government owned. Our spacious bedrooms have been subdivided into offices. But the arabesque arches, curling stairway with wrought iron banisters and patio, are present and cared for.

I recall a hostile reception in Yucatan 30 years ago, a lady gratuitously mocking me on the street as a tourist said, "Usted es un tonto (You're stupid)." And my reply, "Porqué? (Why?)," and her swift rebuttal, "Porqué es (Because you are)." But now friendliness defines this trip.

In 1975, on the weekend, it was near impossible to exchange $50 in Campeche, and of course no ATMs, and little acceptance of credit cards.

My family walked the beach, not a paved malecon with bike and jogging trails with decorative monumental art.

What's hasn't changed? Humidity.

I arrived December 12, Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and paid my respects. Flowers and candles overwhelmed the Virgin's altar. But my arrival was also in the midst of the Book Fair and the International Music Festival. There were multiple events to choose from: poets and ballet, romance singers, painters, pianist, outdoor theater and indoor drama. Spain was the featured honored guest.

Where am I staying? Hotel Lopez. I'm the first guest in a newly renovated, newly tiled floor, new bath, tile and fixtures, fresh paint, and I'd forgotten how nice it is to slip between brand new crisp sheets. All the room lacks are pictures for the wall.

I'm traveling faster than I can write! And I'm on my way to Federico García Lorca's "La Casa de la Senora Alba."

Expenses: Taxi $5, Bus $20, Meals $19, Hotel Lopez $38, Total: $82.

Day 30: Campeche International Festival

The dawn-to-dusk excursions, bus rides and tours took some zap out of me. I was glad to spend a few days in Campeche.

Posters advertised the 10th International Festival. Spain was the invited guest of honor and presented Garcia Lorca's "Casa de la Señora Alba." Admission was free.

The drama of a tyrannical mother stifling her 5 daughters' romantic lives relied too much on shouting sisters to convince me that they were intimidated. I thought, "Couldn't their repression be calm and subtle?" The housekeeper provided comedy relief. Her best line was, "Two weeks after the wedding, the husband abandons the bed for the dining table."

The commentary about the play said it was an antigovernment metaphor for physical, mental and spiritual repression. But the sisters' romantic frustration seemed less political than a statement of Lorca's personal conflicts, repression and desire. Since the drama was written in early 1936, before Franco ruled Spain, I wondered if Lorca's metaphor and target were more aptly the Catholic Mother Church.

I took an evening walk. The city glowed, illuminated. There were dancing water fountains in a rainbow of colors. The central plaza was an open stage crowded with spectators watching a folk ballet. Crafts and art were on display. There was a humorous art show, both educational and cartoonist.

Best exhibit: satiric caricatures of pirates, not Blackbeard or Captain Blood of the past, but commercial CD, music and intellectual property pirates. I wanted to take photos of the best jabs at the pirate vendors, but then I would be a pirate. They were good, so clever, ethically instructive, and satirically funny without falling into nasty finger pointing.

Concerts were free. Raul Simon, the Argentine romantic ballad singer, preformed in one of the rooms at the Casa Cultural where a book fair was also in progress. I had never heard of Raul Simon, but when he sang he encouraged his audience to sing along, and to my surprise, he had a very supporting choir. His songs were popular.

I visited the Immaculate Conception cathedral. Its treasure is a silver ark showing in detail, step-by-step, the crucifixion of Christ. I walked around the ark as if it were the Stations of the Cross. Here was the story of Christ's last suffering from the 30 pieces of silver to the cock that crowed three times.

Expenses: Walking free, Meals $17, Hotel Lopez $38. Total: $55.

Day 31: Campeche, Edzna and Slapstick Comedy

It could have been a set-up by the Keystone Cops. Today started with slapstick comedy, a whirl of confusion and everyone wanted to help, but all pointed in different directions!

Last night I asked about a tour to Edzna, a Mayan city spread over 5 square miles with a huge ball court, a monument decorated with two colorful carved masks and a stone staircase leading to a high temple overlooking a sea-green canopy of jungle trees.

Mary, the bright helpful receptionist at Hotel Lopez, phoned Xtampak Tours. "It's a 4-hour tour. They leave at 9 a.m., the price is 150 pesos ($15), but the minimum is two tourists. Would you pay 300?"

I said, "Maybe by 9 a.m. tomorrow they will have another passenger." I let it go.

I really wanted to leave earlier and the Central Terminal had a bus leaving at 8 a.m. for 120 pesos, round trip. Course, I'd have to get myself to the terminal.

Up at 6.30, coffee for breakfast and with a map in hand, I walked, headed for the Central Terminal.

I came to a glorieta (traffic circle) with multiple spokes. As I perused my map, a young man came over and asked where I wanted to go. "Camionero Central," I said. He waved his hand, pointing beyond the glorieta and said, "Detras, detras (behind, behind)." I crossed the street and there was no access to "behind." I had walked a block east, now I had to retrace my steps and go 2 blocks west where I found "behind," a city bus stop that would take me to the Central Terminal.

I arrived in plenty of time, 20 minutes before 8 a.m. I went over to ADO First Class and asked for a round trip ticket for Edzna. "Sorry, that bus has been canceled today. You'll have to go to South Terminal, Second Class."

I asked directions. The clerk looked at my map, saw a bus icon, and pointed, "Here." It wasn't too far. I caught a second city bus and told the driver I wanted to go to "South Terminal." He said I'd have to transfer. "Here" was not South Terminal!

Then I mentioned that I was trying to go to Edzna. A man, with some English, volunteered, "You want to get off at the Mercado and take a colectivo (minivan)." The Mercado was also the transfer point.

I got off the bus and started to look for a colectivo. A nicely dressed lady on her way to work, a government social service worker, overheard that I wanted to go to South Terminal. She said, "Let me take you, it's on my way." I said, "I want to go to Edzna. The man said, 'Take a colectivo.'" She insisted that South Terminal was where I should buy a ticket. I didn't want to appear rude, so I followed her, and we got on the next bus to South Terminal.

She left for her office and I went to the ADO Second Class window. I was told, "No, you have to take a colectivo." Another lady stepped forward and spoke in English. "You need ticket bus." That phrase sounded strange to me. She said, "Take a taxi to ticket bus." I wrote it down on the same paper that said Central Terminal. I asked her, "Is ticket bus the right word in Spanish?" "Yes, yes, ticket bus."

In front of the bus terminal a taxi driver was anxious for a fare. I asked if he could take me to "ticket bus." That confused him. My request and accent made no sense to him. I tried to explain about Edzna, the colectivo. He saw my note, took it and spoke with another driver. "Yes, I can take you."

I got in the taxi, and he started to drive to Central Terminal. I jabbered, not very coherently, about the Mercado where I had transferred and maybe there would be colectivos. Finally, I pointed the way and took my chances.

At the Mercado, I left the taxi, and a few questions later I found the colectivos. But the Edzna colectivo would not leave until 10 a.m. It was only 8:25 a.m.

All the buses and taxis and help and mistakes were so efficient that I hadn't lost much time. I was 10 blocks from Hotel Lopez, plenty of time to walk back and hope for a tour to Edzna.

At five to nine, I asked Mary if I could still catch a tour to Edzna. She phoned Xtampak Tours. "You're the only one; would you pay 250 pesos?" she asked. "Fine, " I said. "The guide will pick you up in 15 to 20 minutes," she said.

That was great, just enough time for a quick scrambled egg breakfast and coffee in the hotel's cafeteria. I ordered and said, "Rush, please." The coffee came instantly, but it was too hot to drink. I could hear the cook scrambling the eggs when Mary came into the cafe and said, "The driver has arrived." It hadn't been 5 minutes since Mary hung up the phone.

"Could he wait?" I asked. Mary said, "He can't park. He'll have to go around the block." I rushed back to the waitress and asked for my eggs to go. No problem. The tour guide made a quick circle around the block. I entered his car holding a Styrofoam box with eggs, beans and toast, but no coffee. It was still scalding, and thinking of McDonald's, I didn't want to spill the hot coffee, so I left it.

It was a 40-minute drive on a good two-lane road with hardly any traffic to Edzna. My guide was really only a driver. He would wait for 2 hours while I visited the site. I paid the 33 pesos entry and found myself nearly alone in Edzna. There were only 3 other visitors and a gardener riding a lawnmower, trimming the football sized grass field in front of the main temple. I did not tarry. I read each description and climbed the steep staircase, and photographed the chromatic masks carved in the monument.

Included in the description of the Mayans, their culture and achievements, was the disclaimer, "The Maya were never helped by extraterrestrial beings." Someone was concerned that Erich Von Daniken's bestselling book, "Chariots of the Gods" and his hypothesis that astronauts built the pyramids would discredit Mayan achievement.

I finished my self-guided tour in an hour, and my driver Juan was pleased to return early to Campeche.

Expenses: Taxi $3, City buses $1, Meals $29, Tour Edzna $30, Hotel Lopez $38, Total: $101

There is More to See: Days 32-36. Campeche, Merida, Chichen Itza, Valladolid, Chetumal

Day 32: Hacienda Uayamon Wedding Day: This is so romantic!

While checking the Ourmexico Forum website in October I was intrigued by a request. An English couple was planning their wedding, getting married at a hacienda in Campeche. They requested a photographer, but not a professional package deal. They asked if someone casual, a traveler, might be in the area December 15th and would like to photograph their nuptials.

I emailed Sabrina and Jaime, mentioning that I had experience taking wedding photos since the 60's when outdoor hippie weddings were in vogue, at least among my friends. I said, "I'm an amateur with experience, and my price is free."

Sabrina thought it over; we exchanged emails. I told them that Campeche was on my Bus Across Mexico itinerary and that I had a special interest in restored haciendas.

Sabrina and Jaime accepted my offer, and I advanced my planned trip from January to December.

I arrived in Campeche December 13, two days before the wedding. Sabrina and Jaime were already in Campeche, staying at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. I asked for a room at Sir Francis, but they were booked solid for the weekend and I could only stay 3 nights. I asked, "Could you suggest another hotel?" The bellman immediately volunteered, "Hotel Lopez, one block." He pointed to the right. "It's very good and economical," he said. He was right.

Hotel Lopez was a perfect recommendation. I saved 30% and I was the first guest in a completely remodeled room. The bath was newly retiled, and in Mexico that means floor, walls and ceiling. The fixtures were new. The bedroom smelled lightly of fresh paint, and the bedroom floor was also new tile. The room still lacked pictures and wall decorations, but I was thrilled when I climbed into bed that night between brand new crackling sheets. I'd forgotten was a pleasure new sheets could be.

I contacted Sabrina and Jaime and next morning we met for breakfast. They were a delightful couple, committed and loving. Sabrina was a social worker and Jaime a computer graphics designer. After the wedding they were moving to Italy.

They explained that the wedding would be at 5 p.m. Jaime had an unusual camera, a Lomo, which had a special lens. Colors would be saturated in the center and the edges of the photos tended to fade to dark. Jaime said, "The Lomo prints appear magical, like a dream."

I would be taking pictures without a flash, using a mechanical focus setting, snap and wind camera. That sounded like fun, but I was concerned that I might spoil the photos because of being inexperienced with the camera. I said, "I'll use two cameras." My Fuji is low light with an auto focus.

We discussed the travails of getting married in Mexico. "A blood test is a must," said Sabrina. "And there always seems to be another piece of necessary paperwork." They also hired a translator. I said, "The ceremony will be repeated." I felt good about that. I'd have a chance to snap each picture twice.

Saturday we met at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel at 2 p.m. Sabrina would have her hair done at the hacienda. She wanted a 50s' look and her hair stylist had volunteered to drive us.

We arrived at Uayamon Hacienda, a Starwood resort boutique. There were only 12 rooms; most were cottages, very private, on the grounds of a partially restored hacienda.

The weather had taken a turn. There was light drizzle. Umbrellas greeted us. Wolfgang Kresse, hotel manager, introduced the staff and offered us champagne. Sabrina and Jaime checked in and were escorted to separate cottages. Sabrina went to shower and to have her hair styled. Jaime was shown the bridal suite.

The cottages were once hacienda workers' homes, but now they were luxury units with spacious baths and dual vanities.

Roses were set out everywhere. They decorated the bath, added a touch of red to the tissue box, gave a soft presence to the wash cloths, accented the silver tray on the coffee table, and were sprinkled across the white bed spread.

The rain stopped and I walked the grounds. An abandoned stone storage building, now roofless, had been converted into to a swimming pool with stone columns. Paths led through peaceful gardens. This was a place for quiet relaxation.

I met the gardener, Rosendo. He showed me the abandoned chapel and took me to the old hospital, now converted into hotel suites, where the wedding would be held under the archway.

I asked Rosendo how long he had worked at Hacienda Uayamon. "I was born here," he said. "I've worked the hacienda all my life. Now it's a hotel. I planted the ceiba tree in the courtyard when I was only 12. That was 66 years ago."

"May I see the tree?" I asked. "You've seen it!" Rosendo said. I knew the ceiba tree was important to the Mayans, but my book learning lacked practical experience. The ceiba is often called "the silk-cotton tree" and its fiber, kapok, is used in sleeping bags.

Rosendo took me back to the entrance. The ceiba tree, with its huge trunk, towered over the hacienda. From its size I would have guessed it to be three times its age. Rosendo stood dwarfed in front of the massive tree, and I took his picture.

Mayans used five cardinal points, north, south, east, west and center. The ceiba tree represented the center and its trunk was mystically connected to the different planes of existence.

The wedding was classic, elegantly simple. There were no guests, only a few members of the hotel staff, the hair stylist and her husband, the judge, the translator and me.

With daylight ebbing, the ceremony began. Slowly, like a blessing and a new beginning, light faded. Yellow-red flames of torches, symbols of love and desire, broke the darkness.

The judge spoke. The words were translated. Sabrina and Jaime repeated the vows. Rings were exchanged. There was joy and smiles and love and happiness.

And then they kissed.

Expenses: Meals $34, Hotel Lopez $38, Total: $72.

Day 33: Camino Real (Royal Highway), Uxmal Mayan Center, Franciscan Missions, Ruta de Conventos (Route of Convents)

When I mention that I was going to Campeche to my friend Bernardo, he said, "I have friends in Campeche. I'll send an email, maybe they can be your guide."

When I reached Campeche, Alberto and Lirio offered to be my guides and to drive me to Merida. I told Alberto, "I'm interested in haciendas, Mayan ruins and Franciscan missions, especially the largest, the convent at Mani where Bishop Landa burned the Mayan codices."

Albert said, "We can make a tour, part Camino Real, stop at Hacienda Blanca Flor, breakfast in Hecelchakán, then cut over to Uxmal, the Mayan ceremonial center, and continue to Mani which is on the Ruta de Conventos."

It was an excellent plan. It took us through traditional Mayan areas with thatched huts, and into the towns of Santa Elena and Ticul with their plain fortress churches with few windows, built to withstand Mayan attacks.

We first stopped at Hacienda Blanca Flor, built in the 17th century and used as a stronghold during the War of the Castes in 1843. It was well maintained, owned by a doctor in Campeche and opened for tourists and business meetings.

Across the road, a haunting church skeleton overshadowed Blanca Flor. Black crows strutted on the roofless walls looking like animated gargoyles.

I took pictures of the abandoned church, its rookery an Edgar Allen Poe scene, the only part of the hacienda now neglected.

Octavio, the manager, guided us around the property. He pointed out the Mayan glyph, the god that brings a plentiful harvest, chiseled in stone above the archway that led to the fields. Next to the entrance were two statutes, St. Francis and Chac-Mool, the Mayan god of rain. Fresh produce was growing in the hacienda garden. Workers were pulling radishes and cleaning lettuce.

Saddles were lined up in the corridor, ready for a mount. An ancient Ford flivver set on blocks added to the sense of antiquity. Tourists were encourage to stay in the hacienda and take side trips to Mayan ruins, Campeche the Fortress Walled City, Isla Arena (Sand Island) and Gurtas de Loltun (Loltun Grotto).

We got back into Alberto's truck. "Time for breakfast, he said." We had left Campeche before 7 a.m., and we were hungry. This was part of Alberto's plan. He had a special place in mind, the outdoor restaurant on the plaza in Hecelchakán. Albert recommended "torta cochinita (thin sliced pork sandwich)."

In Hecelchakán the sidewalk was jammed with diners. "This is a popular place," I said. Albert said, "People drive all the way from Campeche just for a torta cochinita." We order cochinita, marinated sliced pork, folded in a tortilla. I generally have coffee for breakfast, but this savory sandwich called for a beer.

In front of the restaurant, parked side-by-side at the curb, were three-wheel bicycle-taxis. A standard bike frame and back wheel was attached to a two-wheel front cart with a shade roof. Two people could sit together. Shoppers could carry their purchases home.

A taxi pulled out. A lady with a grocery bag at her feet sat upright. She held a tray of 30 eggs and appeared unconcerned about her fragile cargo.

On the streets, these taxis were busy. I wanted a ride.

While we waited for our tortas, I asked, "How much for a quick ride to the church and back?" The driver said, "10 pesos ($1)." I hopped in and Alberto took my picture enjoying the brief pedal powered ride.

Back in the truck, we left the Camino Real and drove to Uxmal. I had visited Uxmal in 1975 with my family. Uxmal was nearly deserted then and archeologists were working on the site. Today Uxmal is on the tourist circuit. There are good roads, excellent service, a nearby hotel and restaurants. Much has been restored since 1975, but visitors are no longer allowed to climb the steep steps to the top of the Pyramid of the Magician.

"Too many accidents, " I was told.

The Pyramid of the Magician (legend says it was conjured up in 3 days) is my favorite Mayan monument. It leaves me with a sense of awe. It's sheer, stone, curved-sided, bulk rises dramatically from the flat plain and towers over the jungle canopy as a testament to a once powerful Mayan city-state.

We drove to Mani and passed through Ticul. Life sized Mayan heroes and gods, statutes looking like kings, stood guard on nearly every corner. In the plaza, stood a plain church. The upper façade, looked like a brooding, stylized Mayan face glaring from the Catholic fortress.

When we arrived in Mani it was afternoon and the convent was closed until 4 p.m. This once principal town and seat of power, was quiet and nearly deserted.

Under Mani's City Hall arches there were two eye-catching displays. The brightest, with red flames, was a mural showing Bishop Landa putting the torch to the Mayan idols and codices in 1562. The bishop, interested in saving souls, believed he was destroying the works of the devil.

Mayans seemingly had converted to Christ and Catholicism, but syncretism was the reality. Mayans accepted Christian saints and the Catholic mass as extensions of pre-Hispanic rites and beliefs. Mayan statues were found secreted in altars and even in the cross itself.

Concerned for Mayan souls, Bishop Landa set an immense bonfire. He incinerated 5000 idols, 197 ceremonial vases and 27 deerskin codex scrolls in an effort to halt Mayan heresy. Mayan history was lost in the conflagration, and today historians deeply regret this act.

The second eye-catcher, next to the mural of Landa's bonfire, was a group of 5 recent photos. They pictured step-by-step the annual Mayan ritual ceremony asking Chac-Mool to bring rain for an abundant harvest.

Ironically after 4 centuries, Catholic worshipers pray to Chac-Mool. Bishop Landa destroyed the physical, but never fully converted the Mayan heart.

In Mani, we lunched at Tutul-Xiu a giant thatched roofed restaurant with open sides. Shade and breeze are important in this hot, humid climate. I let Alberto order for me. "The specialty of the house," he said. I was served an attractive plate of thin sliced, small pieces of pork with tomatoes and onions. I ordered Montejo beer, named for the Conquistador of Yucatan.

The huge stone walled Franciscan mission dominated Mani. It was once a fortress, a church, a self-sufficient community, and a seat of government. It has suffered numerous violations, often stripped, and the interior was quite plain. It has been partially restored and there were attractive retablos in the church. The open chapel, walled up for centuries, has been reopened. In the garden an ancient water mill was present, but a modern pump was used to draw the water.

It was after 4 p.m. and it would be dark in an hour. Alberto drove me to Merida, dropped me off on Calle 60, just off the center plaza, where I had my pick of a dozen hotels. I chose modest Hotel San Juan, $35 a night with pool and air-conditioning. But for $80 I could have stayed at Hotel Mission Merida in real luxury setting, with a superb pool.

I opted for a drink in Hotel Mission Merida's patio bar and listened to Jaime play the piano and sing soft romantic ballads.

Expenses: (Alberto and Lirio were my guests, as I was theirs. Of course, I had no transportation cost.) Meals $56, Fees $26, Hotel San Juan $35, Total: $117.

Day 34: Merida: Sunday: A Day of Rest

No taxis, no buses, no traveling, today is Sunday. I'm taking a day of rest, a calm, walk and gawk day, see the people, the kids, the street entertainers, and check my email.

Every Sunday, downtown Merida becomes a pedestrian mall. Barricades are set up tables set out, stages erected and families come for music, street performers, outdoor dining, and to see clowns entertaining children on the circular stage in the park.

Today is my day for an outdoor table, guacamole, topos (chips), a cold Montejo beer and people watching. The weather is warm, and the morning fog morphed into a bright blue sky by 10 a.m.

Later in the day, I'll have my choice of a children's choir singing Christmas carols in the plaza near my hotel, a symphony in the Teatro Merida, or a contemporary art show.

I prefer to walk rather than to sit and choose the art show. On my way I hear part of the children's choir singing, young voices, sweet, sopranos and high tenors. Then as I pass the theater, I poke my nose into the lobby. The theater was built in 1949, but it has the grace and style of a movie palace designed in the '30s. It must be one of the last Art Deco styled buildings ever built.

The Museo Contemporaneo houses the art show. The museum itself has a traditional styled colonial arched interior and a central patio with rooms on four sides. A security guard stands at the door in front of each room.

As I approach the first door, the guard opens the door. It's warm in the patio, but the room is air-conditioned. The guard is stationed not only to protect the exhibitions but also to see that the air conditioning is not wasted.

In the second room, the current featured exhibit, starts on the left with a photo of a rust-red colored bison, a drawing from the cave wall at Alta Mira, Spain. A second photo is of a similar cave drawing from Central Baja California discovered in the '50s. The show is a timeline of art, a record of man's creative expression. Photographs march along the walls and up to a second floor and downstairs again. The centerpiece is Michelangelo's God Giving the Spark of Life to Adam. Photographs of the world's great art masterpieces are featured in sequence, from the cave drawings, to Greek statues, to Roman mosaics reclaimed from Pompeii, to flat Byzantheum iconography, to three-dimensional perspective European Renaissance Classics, Dutch and Spanish. As you look and walk you are retracing histories, yet moving ahead, era by era. Modern art adds Picasso, Dalí, Miró and the final last featured piece is by Frida Kalo. Thus the exhibit starts with a Mexican cave painting and ends with a Mexican artist.

I felt like student who had just prepared for the final exam in Art History 1A.

It was time for another cold Montejo beer in the park.

Expenses: Meals $22, Hotel San Juan $35, Total: $57

Day 35: Chichen Itza-Valladolid-Chetumal

Buses run day and night. I'm up early, it's 5 a.m. and it's hard to find a taxi in Merida in this pre-dawn dark. I walk the 10 blocks to the bus station. The ADO bus for Chichen Itza leaves at 6:30.

Two hours later I arrive in Chicken Itza. I'm ahead of the vanguard of tourist buses and European Tour groups. Shops and restaurants aren't open yet, but the gate to archeological site is open. Tickets are 95 pesos. "Where can I leave my bag?" I ask. The ticket clerk has to track down security. I'm the first to store a bag. In fact, I empty of my shoulder bag into another plastic bag to reduce weight and bulk as I visit Chichen Itza.

I was here with my family 1975. Cancun was under construction; tourism was a hope. We had the site mostly to ourselves in 1975. I don't even recall souvenir vendors.

In 1975 we scaled El Castillo the famous four-sided, 91-step pyramid. (91 x 4= 364, and the platform made it 365.) We climbed every monument and went inside the observatory. Today, hundreds of tour buses, thousands of tourists, visit daily. The parking lot is large enough for tailgating at the Super Bowl. Major monuments are roped off. El Castillo is off limits. With so many visitors, wear and tear and accidents had to be prevented.

Mayan merchants are arriving with their merchandise stacked high on their backs, looking like old photos from a B. Traven novel of overburdened human cargo carriers. Loads extend above their heads and the carriers use headbands for support and balance. Vendors pick their place in the shade along the trails of Chichen Itza. Blankets and tarps are laid out and define the boundaries of their store. Hammocks, masks, carved wood and mosaic stone, jewelry, silver and beads of jade and amber are for sale. Pottery, plates and sarapes, all in brilliant colors, are displayed. There is even a large carved Mayan jaguar for sale. I admire a mask. I'm impressed by the quality; in fact, most of the handcrafts are attractive and well made.

I ask an artisan, "Do you have to have a license to sell inside the park?" He says, "No, it's a tradition and we have a right. But we are under protest." "Protest?" I ask. "We object to the construction of the palapas (large thatched roofed buildings). They are stealing our business." "How many merchants are there?" I ask. "We are 500." Amazing, I thought, 500 small businesses lining the footpaths of Chichen Itza and threatened by store sales.

Having arrived early I was able to see Chichen Itza with few tourists. Tour groups were just arriving. Because climbing the monuments was now forbidden, the visit went quickly. I read the posted explanations, took photos, and completed the circuit in 2 hours, just in time to catch the bus for Valladolid.

When I went for a bus ticket, the clerk said, "The bus is just leaving, pay the driver." I raced. No one was in the secure baggage locker room. I grabbed my soft-sided suitcase and the plastic bag in which I had placed a number of items. I ran with three bundles, the small suitcase, the plastic garbage bag and my shoulder bag. I rushed. The bus had just left the yellow zone. It was maybe 50 yards ahead and headed for the gate. I shouted. The Oriente Bus security man put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. His shrill whistle caught the driver's attention. I ran, my three bags swinging. I must have looked like a panicky St. Nick running after his sleigh. The bus stopped at the gate. I arrived huffing and puffing. The door opened and I got on. It was air-conditioned. What a pleasure. "20 pesos," the driver said.

In less than an hour we arrived in Valladolid. The bus station was only 3 blocks form the colonial town's square. I checked the bus schedule.

I had 3 hours, time for lunch, visit the city, see San Bernadino de Sisal Convent, and the Zaci grotto-cenote.

The main plaza looked attractive and I ate lunch under the arches next to the City Hall. I ordered a cold beer and "comida" (the meal of the day), breaded beef, rice, beans, tomato and lettuce. (I left the lettuce out of habit.)

In the City Hall I found murals depicting the Mayan conquest, enslavement and ultimate liberation. They were educational, vividly colorful and dramatic, but not fine art.

I hailed a taxi and we agreed on $10 for one hour, just enough time to visit the convent, the grotto-cenote and to drop me at the Oriente Bus Depot. Both sites were within walking distance, but in opposite directions, and I was tired of feeling like a mule with a pack.

The cabbie drove down Calzada de Los Frailes to the giant, high-walled San Bernardino de Sisal convent. Like Mani, it was imposing, built to be a church, a convent and self-sufficient. It appeared unchanged since its founding in 1552. My first thought was, "This is a fortress." Its façade was a checkerboard pattern devoid of any religious symbols or art. The church was closed. In the rear, there is an ancient once mule-powered water wheel where if you look down you can see an underground stream.

San Bernardino is one of the examples where Spanish exploitation and Franciscan ministry collided. Franciscans purposely founded their convent away from the Spanish settlers. (This was also true in San Francisco, California, where the mission and the presidio were built miles apart.) Spanish hacenderos needed labor and resented the Franciscans.

The taxi crossed town and took me to the Zaci Grotto-cenote. I entered a cavern, followed a trail a short distance and found the still water cenote. Cenotes are natural wells, sink holes that have fallen in and exposed underground rivers, a main source of water for the Mayans.

This cenote was a natural beauty, not exposed as a deep, giant vertical well as the cenote at Chichen Itza, but part of a cavern complex, with an overhanging ledge and a worn trail down to the water's edge.

I passed a number of signs saying, "No Swimming." But at the foot of the cenote, I found 5 happy bathers. "This water is cool," one bather said. It looked like the perfect refresher for a hot day.

I took pictures and then walked back to my waiting cab. In no time I was back on the bus. It was 2:30 and I'd reach Chetumal before 8 p.m.

Expenses: Bus $8 to Chichen, $2 to Valladolid, $14 to Chetumal, Taxis $12, Meals $10, Hotel $39, Entrance fees $11. Total: $96.

Day 36: Chetumal

The Valladolid bus pulled into Chetumal. I stood in the taxi line and it moved quickly. I told the driver, "Take me to the center of town," thinking there would be a traditional center.

The driver pulled up in front of Holiday Inns on Avenida Heroes across from the Museo Maya and the Tourist Office. The Center for the Arts was around the corner.

The "center" of Chetumal was a Mercado, a vast commercial shopping mall. It was active, but without charm, and Holiday Inns is not exactly my idea of Mexico.

I checked in at the reception desk. The clerk was very helpful when I asked, "Could you suggest an economical hotel?" Immediately, he recommended a nearby hotel. "Hotel Arges is three blocks toward the bay, on a side street. It's newly remodeled."

Hotel Arges was 1/3 the price of Holiday Inns, modest, clean, comfortable and quiet until my neighbor in the next room turned on the TV at 5 a.m. Noise is tolerated and ignored in Mexico and how it's transmitted and amplified by cement walls is a Mexican mystery.

So, I got an early start.

Shops were already opening. Sidewalk vendors were unpacking boxes and setting up displays. There was little traffic on the street. I walked down Avenida Heroes, which took me directly to the bay port and the Centenario Plaza where an obelisk honored the fallen heroes of the 1919-1920 Revolution. Off to the side, band members were gathering under a thatched roof bandstand for a practice session.

I had arrived at Chetumal Bay and I could see into the Caribbean. I spied Belize in the distance. I had bused across Mexico's extremes, from Tijuana to Chetumal, from north to south, west to east, from the Pacific to the Atlantic. I'd made it from California to Guatemala, and soon I'd claim, from Tijuana to Cancun as I would travel along the Mayan coast and visit Bacalar, Tulum, Playa del Carmen, and fly home from Cancun. I'd explored a vast Mexican mosaic, and I felt a real joy in having accomplished the journey by bus.

I gazed out over the calm sea shimmering in the morning light and put on my sunglasses. The horizon was a bright blue. It was hot and humid; my cap was damp with sweat.

This was once pirate country. I walked the palm and magnolia tree-lined bayside paseo. In the early morning, a young couple sat under the shade of a palm tree, he leaning against the sea wall, she against him. A yellow rowboat was beached, turned upside down as if pirates had just landed.

The Palacio Presidential faced the bay. Each story of this three-floor building had a bay view veranda, and the design reminded my of Queen Kamehameha's Iolani Palace in Honolulu.

A sign on the paseo read: Parque Renacimiento (Renaissance Park). I walked a few blocks and found a new Sam's Club and El Poton Restaurant, also owned by Wal-Mart.

I breakfasted at El Fenico (The Phoenician) with ancient sailboats painted on the walls. The restaurant windows were open to the gentle breeze.

It was now nearly 10 a.m. and the Mayan Museum was opened. I was greeted with air-conditioning, nearly too cold. There was a Mayan thatched hut exhibit in the patio, completely furnished. I joked, "How much to stay the night?"

The Mayan Museum was a combination of Mayan artifacts, models of major sites, Palenque and Tikal, mural reproductions in vivid colors from Bonampak, Yaxchilán and Caxcala and excellent descriptions of Mayan society, their calendar, numerical system and rituals.

The model of Palenque was in the basement, but viewed through the glass first floor. I didn't walk on the glass, didn't want to smudge the view for others. It was a unique, effective display.

It was the perfect educational review after having visited Yaxchilán, Edzna, Palenque, Uxmal and Chichen Itza. The museum was a survey of all I had seen.

Expenses: Taxi $2, Meals $14, Hotel Los Arges $39, Museum fees $5, Total: $60.

Journey Complete; Time to go Home: Days 37-38. Bacalar, Tulum, Cancun

Day 37: Bacalar, Tulum, Playa del Carmen

I was nearing the end of my trip. I woke up early, anxious to move on. In dawn's light, the sky glowed as the sun was hidden in the fog. I walked 6 blocks to the Colectivo (minivan) pick up. There were no vans. It was 6:45 a.m.

I asked a taxi driver if I was in the right place to catch the colectivo for Bacalar. "I'll take you for 80 pesos ($8)," he said. Bacalar is a multicolored lagoon, known for its star-shaped fort built to protect the town from pirates. It is also famous for its Agua Azul Cenote (Blue Water Well). It's a 40-minute ride from Chetumal, and I thought $8 was a good price. The colectivo would cost me $2.

It was early, no traffic, and we arrived at Agua Azul in less than half an hour. Agua Azul is also a restaurant, eclectically decorated: old rifles from the Revolution, live squawking parrots, a mounted bull's head with a hat on each horn, a Mexican, sombrero, the other Texan cowboy. It's an open-air restaurant, posts support the palm-thatched roof and fans stir the humid air.

I was their first breakfast diner. Carlos asked if I'd like coffee while I waited for the cook to set up. I said yes, and he brought me a cup of hot water and a jar of Nescafe instant.

The water in the cenote is crystal clear, 90 feet deep and actually is fed by 9 natural springs. A family was already enjoying a swim.

When breakfast arrived, I asked Carlos to call a taxi for me. It was about a mile to town and I thought by the time I finished my breakfast the cab would be ready.

Perfect timing. The cabbie arrived and we drove into Bacalar.

The town was still quiet and the museum would not open for another 20 minutes. I walked around the outside of the old fort. I looked out, over the multicolored lagoon. Small boats were for rent and attractive restaurants and bars were at the water's edge. This was a touch of paradise.

I took a few pictures and went back to the fort-museum. Its theme was pirates, ships and navigation. There were comments about pre-Hispanic Mayan shipping and trade. The displays were written in both Spanish and English. It was a relatively small fort and museum, but I marveled that any band of pirates would attack.

I had checked the bus schedule. I looked at my watch and scurried to the ADO-Mayab Terminal. I wanted to see Tulum, the Mayan coastal temple and walled citadel. The first view of Spanish ships may have occurred from Tulum. Spaniards were amazed by the stone citadel and compared it to well-built structures in Spain.

From Bacalar, I was in for a 3-hour ride. I bought a ticket, but seats were first come first serve and a number of teenagers, on their way to Playa Del Carmen for the holidays, had appropriate extra seats. I sat in last row. It was a good choice. The last row sits higher than the rest and you have a reasonable view of the highway ahead, and I had a side window too.

I practiced my Spanish with three youngsters aged 15, 12 and 11. They were bright and eager to speak with an old gringo from California.

The bus pulled into Tulum. I expected to be dropped off at the archeological site, not realizing that Tulum was also the name of the local town. I had to catch a taxi for the 3-mile ride to the ruins. The driver explained, however, that going from Tulum's ruins, I could catch a bus to Playa del Carmen and Cancun. And he said, "Take a colectivo; they are more frequent and less expensive."

The taxi dropped me off at the Tulum ruins, but from the entrance, it was still a hike. You can walk or take the train, a tractor pulled double car, that transports 100 visitors at a time.

Of all the Mayan temple sites I visited, Palenque, Uxmal, Edzna, Bonampak, and Yaxchilán, Tulum was by far the most overrun by tourists. Groups crowded the site. There were more tourists in Tulum than stones in the major temple. The site is virtually roped off to visitors. "See but don't climb," is now the rule. This is also true of Palenque, Uxmal and Chichen Itza. Pogo said it best, ages ago, "We have met the enemy and he is us."

Swimmers climbed down a wooden staircase to the gulf. Soft breakers stirred the shoreline. Many tourists were wearing shorts and some were in swimsuits. The ocean offered refreshing relief from the heat and humidity.

I read the bilingual commentaries and was thankful I wasn't herded with a group. Europeans outnumbered Americans.

The afternoon sun was perfect for photos, but most pictures are sprinkled with tourists.

Tulum is not a large site. One hour is sufficient to walk, read the legends, photograph and even touch your toe into the sand of the Caribbean Sea.

I caught the tractor-train back to the center. Papantla men performed the high climbing, swinging rope ritual. One man stands atop an 80-foot pole, 4 others, representing the 4 cardinal points, perform a ritual, then drop backwards, upside-down, feet attached to ropes and they unwind, circling the ground. The ritual is in reverence to the rain god, and the performers are a metaphor for the falling rain.

From the center I still had a 5-minute walk to the colectivo stand. When I arrived, the driver told me to sit up front. I was alone and as soon as I got in, we were off to Playa Del Carmen.

Playa Del Carmen is the ultimate tourist beachfront shopping bazaar. I enjoyed the utter overexposure to Mexican shopping and brand name luxury businesses.

I paid $6 for a scoop of Häagen Dazs Pralines and Cream with a special dipped cone. Starbucks was prominent and Carlos and Charlie's, too.

Luxury shops line Calle Cinco (Fifth Street) and there is enough electricity glowing in the jewelry stores to power most hotels.

Expenses: Taxi & Combi $18, Bus $10, Meals $18, Hotel La Ziranda $44, Fees $18, Total: $108.

Day 38: Leaving: Playa del Carmen and the Cancun Airport

On Playa del Carmen's Fifth Street, from an efficient travel agent handling incoming calls and simultaneously punching up airline schedules on the computer, I purchased a ticket for Mexico City. He recommended Click Airlines. "It's part of Mexicana, but like United's Ted, it's the economical service," he said.

Click had an early flight. That suited me. I like early mornings in Mexico. Next morning I was up, packed and ready by 5 a.m. Hotel la Ziranda was only two blocks from the bus depot, but the airport bus wouldn't leave until 7 a.m.

I'd have to take a taxi.

I loaded myself down with three bags and walked to the corner, down the street from my hotel. It was dark, misty and quiet. I stood at the corner. Immediately a cab flashed its lights. I waved and he pulled over. "How much to Cancun Airport?" The driver pulled out a rate card, "$40," he said.

We negotiated. "Its early, no traffic, it's a 30 minute ride, round trip, you'll be back in an hour," I said to the cabbie. "You might get a fare back."

We agreed to $30. I put my bags in the back seat, sat down in the front seat and chatted. I asked about his kids and family. Along the highway there were big stonewalls with gated entryways to new resorts under construction. The driver pointed out 3 new hotels, "All Spanish," he said.

I thought, how ironic. When I was in Spain in the sixties, Spain was poor and selling its beaches to Germans and Scandinavians. Now Spaniards are buying Mexico's beaches.

It was a quick ride. Light was dawning. The airport was silent. I was early and check-in was fast. I was on my way home.

Expenses: Taxi $30