Mexican Joyride: The Road to El Dorado
By Donna McCrohan Rosenthal, East Sierra Branch
In my childhood and television’s infancy, the family used to watch a TV show called Bold Journey. Each week, a different daring dude with home movies would share his trip to the Amazon, ice fields, or other exotic destination. I drew the compelling conclusion that one day I’d do the same. Yet I came nowhere close until 1996 in central Mexico with a press group invited for an insider’s tour of the pre-Columbian world.
Not one of us fit the image of Indiana Jones. We represented the travel, art, archaeology, and cuisine media. We climbed into a van that arrived instead of the one we’d ordered. Our senses tingled. Before long, we learned to attribute it to the lack of air-conditioning. We took turns rotating to the stifling back row. Occasionally we’d hit a bump, and luggage would topple onto someone from the unsecured pile behind us.
One afternoon found us white-water rafting. We wore safety helmets and soft-soled shoes to keep from puncturing the raft or our brains. While the colleague in front of me joked about being “débil como una mujer” (weak like a woman), I seemed to do all the rowing. Each time we approached a low-lying branch, he’d duck it by throwing himself backward onto my face but I kept churning the water because, his comments notwithstanding, I was “fuerte” (strong) como una mujer.
We almost abandoned our scheduled route when rebels with submachine guns blocked the road and demanded to know our business. The art expert answered, “Somos periodistas.” Alarmed voices rose from the van, warning, “Hey, don’t tell him we’re journalists. They’ll think we’re spies.” I couldn’t help wondering what the soldiers thought we were yelling about, or whether the word “spies” might be one they knew. The very next question was “What are you here to write about?” Art Man replied, “Olmec civilization.” Apparently convinced that nobody would make up such a story, Gun Man grinned and waved us on. I never worried. I didn’t think local politics had much to fear from articles about colossal pre-Columbian stone heads.
Toward the end of our week, we roamed the magnificent Mayan ruins of Palenque. From there, we drove to a breathtakingly perfect waterfall. A crystal-blue stream splashed into a glistening lagoon from high above, cascading onto swimmers who preceded us. Within minutes, we made ripples of our own.
We emerged refreshed, our clothes drying quickly as we rode along with some hint of breeze edging into the van. My sneakers, still damp from the rafting of days before, felt like sponges. I kicked them off. “Is there a farm nearby?” someone asked. “Something smells …organic.” When I admitted I’d taken off my shoes, everyone united in demanding I keep them on or they’d burn them and hang my feet through the window.
Squeezing my toes back into the clammy canvas, I wasn’t sure what any of this meant to them – the van… the rafting … the rebels… the ruins… the waterfall… but when they questioned the odor, I should have said, without hesitation, “It’s the scent of adventure.”
I went home head over stinky heels in love with Mexico. I’ve returned often since then, having realized that nothing in the rules limits me to only one Bold Journey.