Butterflies

As mentioned in the last post, my reward for clawing my way back to my loving husband in Mexico City after a terrible week of food poisoning and horse-inflicted abuse in the field was to get up at 5 am the next morning to go horseback riding. Keating and I were bleary-eyed but awake and (mostly) dressed when the phone rang at 5:10 am Sunday morning. It was our friend Monica, who had been kind enough to make the reservations for the tour. She was calling because she had just realized that, being a Sunday, the public transportation system would not yet be running and we would have no way to get to the rendezvous point for the tour. Thank goodness that Monica is 100% amazing: she had already called a taxi service to come get us.

About 20 minutes later, Keating and I sat in the dark in front of our apartment building waiting for our taxi. Monica had stressed that the taxi would be a dark blue sedan and that the driver would know both our first names and the code number "98." (There's nothing like the Mexican taxi service to make you feel like you're either in a Bond movie or doing something illegal.) Keating and I watched the minutes tick away nervously as we scanned the nearly-empty streets. Finally, Keating pointed to a car down the block:

Keating: Have you been watching that car? Do you think maybe it's our taxi? It looks kind of like he's looking for someone.

Me: Yeah... he keeps driving in reverse down the block, then pulling forward around the corner. Really weird. It's a white compact, though, so it can't be ours. Monica said it's a blue sedan.

Keating: (simply staring at me for a moment) There have been, what 4 cars on the road? And one of them looks lost on our block? How many Mexicans do you think would be looking for an address on our block at this time of day? Maybe they sent a different car. Are you sure you understood her right? I could just walk over there and ask him.

Me: Don't do that! That guy has been driving like a lunatic. He's probably doing something illegal. I'll call Monica back to check.

Monica confirmed that we were looking for a blue sedan, and I continued to stare suspiciously at the white compact car. Moments after hanging up the phone, the white car ghosted forward and rolled down a window.

Driver: (translated) Are you Sara?

Me: No, I'm Shazta. (realizing that "Sara" and "Shazta" are pretty darn close to the same word in Spanish) Are you supposed to be picking two people up here?

Driver: I'm looking for Sara and .... (trails off to nowhere)

Me: We're supposed to wait for a cab that knows both our names and a security number. (I'm pretty sure this is our guy, despite the wrong car and wrong name, but I refuse to just get into an unmarked car with some man I've been eyeing suspiciously for 20 minutes because Sara sounds vaguely like Shazta.)

Driver: (Gets on radio. Mutters back and forth.) Sara. And Char-ley? (looks hopefully at Keating)

Keating: Well, I think that's the closest that anyone has come to actually pronouncing my name since we got here, especially after it's been broadcast second-hand through a radio. Get in the taxi, Shazta -- otherwise we won't make it to the rendezvous.

As I got into the taxi, still muttering about not having the securi

ty number and how James Bond wound know better than to get into the car without that number, the phone rang. It was Monica calling to tell us that she had phoned the taxi company to figure out what was going on and had been told that the driver was sitting around, confused, waiting for us. It was great that Monica called just then since our driver had completely forgotten where he had been hired to take us to and refused to believe me when I told him (most people aren't looking for closed metro stations at that hour). In frustration, I passed him the phone and let Monica (who is a native Mexican) explain to him that we were not crazy, stupid gringos. (Mostly, anyway.) He agreed to drive us to our destination, but kept repeating that he thought it was terribly strange and very likely a bad idea. I found this reassuring, as you can imagine.

This is how we came to be standing in front of a closed metro station in a semi-seedy part of town at 6:30 am, waiting for anyone else from our tour. At the stroke of 7, Monica appeared from one direction and our mini-touring-bus arrived from the other. Within moments, we were all loaded in and gone.

Our tour left the urban sprawl of Mexico City and wound through the surrounding mountains until we reached Valle de Bravo. At the butterfly sanctuary, we each paid our 3 pesos to use the facilities before mounting the horses for our ride up the hill. Unlike the work horses of my crippling experience two days before, these horses were outfitted with comfortable leather saddles and lazy dispositions appropriate for adult-scale pony rides. Each horse had it's own minder to make sure that the horse didn't suddenly decide to play the old game of "Ditch the Tourist." My horse was so completely indifferent to its prospects that it had no intention of either climbing up or walking back down the hill; my horse-minder had to actually drag the horse both ways. (I felt so bad I gave him an extra large tip.) We had missed the peak butterfly time by about a week, but the view was still incredible atop the hill. The air swirled with monarch butterflies making their final preparations before departing on their long migration north. Parts of the forest floor were carpeted in the orange and black wings of butterflies who had made the long journey south to die in the quiet pines and sunny meadows. It was amazingly beautiful.

Butterflies in the Valle de Bravo sanctuaries. My camera battery died, so I found this photo online to show you what it looked like. Credit: http://veryveryfun.com/index.php?Itemid=1&id=25&option=com_content&task=view

Following our visit to the butterfly sanctuary, we stopped at the nearby Bridal Veil Falls and the actual town of Valle de Bravo. The town, situated on a large reservoir and surrounded by mountains, is a favorite resort location for Mexico City's wealthy. It is a picturesque mix of grand haciendas, artisan's markets, public squares, and old village, with plenty of opportunities for hang gliding and boating.

Another internet-snagged photo, this time of Valle de Bravo's central square. Maybe next time I'll remember to bring spare batteries. Photo from: http://travel.webshots.com/photo/2122445550064444924wnGeZz

Keating, Monica, and I went in search of the main Artisan's Market which our guide had assured us was only a couple of blocks up a hilly street. After about 10 blocks, we decided to ask directions. I have previously complained that Mexicans use a strange and complicated conversion system when giving distances in their directions: "two blocks straight ahead" could easily mean "thirteen blocks north, four blocks east." Thanks to getting lost in Valle de Bravo with Monica, a real, live Mexican, I now know how to translate Mexican directions: go as far as the person suggested, and then find someone else to ask. I was still pretty sure that I was going to die from physical pain and exhaustion from my week in the field, but I refused to give up the search for the market -- I was on the hunt for a cool birthday present for my mom. At least 5 sets of directions later, the three of us finally crawled into the Artisan's Market. I found the gift for my mom, and Keating found a nice present for his dad (whose birthday happens to be the day before my mom's). Presents in hand, the three of us left the market and immediately got lost again.

Note: I use the term "lost" loosely. Geologists are never lost; we are simply exploring the area. (Even if we are confused as hell, holding the map upside-down, howling with frustration. We are not lost.)

Traffic jams on the way back kept us on the road a couple hours longer than planned, and we finally crawled up the 3 flights of stairs to our apartment at 11 pm. We were exhausted and dirty (and may have smelled faintly of horse poo), but we felt good. It had been a great day outside of the city.