-Huatulco, Tapachula, Solola, Panajachel
Sir Truth is gone, real gone; beyond the sounds of Superior and Inferior, where cliffs hang, holding salty bathwater, and treading with the sea captains of tiny wooden vessels. Gone but not forgotten.

The reemergence of his character, comes after a long spell of fun, and a lack of electricity.
As the Chapin women have diverted much of my defecited attention, the clouds and volcanic smoke mark the coming of another perfect night. Joined by kindred McSip,
the two set out on the bow of the Jucaña, bound for Santiago.

As we slipped in, like algae to the crystal lagunas, a perfect place for laundry, the boys of the beach spoke Poqomam and Nahautl between jousts of Sir Truth's Spanish. A flip silenced them and a game was made after diving from the starboard end of a 60 ft. catamaran.

A place for bathing, a place for futbol, and more Moza and Gallo and test our tolerance. Through the reeds and the soft placid water, we both floated along like pieces of paper, the locals so carelessly toss. Laundry cost us more than our room and board. Our bargaining tactics were unbeatable, so we chose the traje to suit us best, and now blended in better than the pale geckos of the night.

We were joined by local folk musicians, Pattie and Jack, as the four of us, demonstrated our dance. "Get back, get back, get back to where you once belonged!"

If only these people can sustain their world,
the tourists need them and they need the tourists.
A poor dependant house of cards; a crystalline body of water, settled in jungle, surrounded by mountains, and flourishing with life, nearly more life than a world can support.

These are the Mayan children.
Los hijos del Sol
what a life

...until Coban


Mandrill- Children of the Sun