“Seat numbers 19 and 20, departure time 8:30,” the friendly
clerk at the Flecha de Zempoaltepetl bus company tells us. A number of people
are already lingering in the waiting area. Old women with long pleats clutch
huge bunches of flowers, their orange blossoms wrapped in newspapers. A shaky octogenarian
with a crumpled hat changes in and out of different jackets and sweaters
several times while continuously rearranging the contents of his plastic bags. At
8:20, a rickety bus arrives, and everyone crowds around it. “We have numbered
seats: there is no need to rush,” we think but bustle forward anyway, just in
case. A worn tyre is being rolled out of the bus and away into the terminal.
The driver gets off the bus with a small wrench in his hand and sets to work on
one of the front wheels. This seems to take longer, and the passengers sit down
again. After a while, the driver gets back on the bus and starts test-driving
it back and forth. Once more, a hopeful crowd forms at the gate. Apparently the
repair failed: the bus drives off. Finally, at 9:10, another bus arrives and we
and our fellow passengers quickly take our appointed seats and fill the luggage
rails.
In Cuajimoloyas, a village over 3200 m high in the mountains,
we are immediately ushered into the “information module” where Evencio, our
guide, already awaits us. He is 45, somewhat stout, and wears a baseball cap. “The
villages around here have traditionally formed a community to use their
resources together,” he explains. “The forests, for example, are all village
property.” Eight years ago, the tourist office of Oaxaca, the nearest city, initiated an eco-community
project designed to let tourists experience the diverse nature of the Sierra
Norte, populated mainly by the indigenous Zapotecs. The trained local guides
explain the numerous plants of the cloud forest, and visitors can stay in
purpose-built huts or use designated camp sites in each of the five
participating villages. There are small restaurants in each locality. The fees
for accommodation and use of the services are used for the whole community,
Evencio tells us. “The villagers are quite happy with the project.”
Soon we pass enormous agaves, some of them with inflorescences
up to 6 or 7 m high. They flower only once in 20 or 25 years, we learn – “but
this is not the right variety to make pulque,
the traditional alcoholic drink.” Those are smaller, and we see them later in
the day. The deeper we get into the forest, the stranger it becomes. Weird-looking
trees tangle around us, most of them covered with hairy moss that is hanging
down in strands from the branches. Some trunks are dotted with bromelias:
sturdy red flowers that sink their roots directly in the bark and look rather
like a demanding variety of potted plants.
After a few hours hiking in the deep forest, we emerge onto
the rim of a deep valley. A brief vista over very green mountains and valleys
stretching to the horizon before we steeply descend about 1000 m into the
canyon. With 15 kg of camping gear in the backpack, there is not much time for
looking at the local flora. When we finally arrive in Latuvi, we are happy to
pitch our tent, explore the one and only shop, and cook a dinner of rice, potatoes
and beans with cheese. That would have been the vegetarian option in the
restaurant, too, we are told later.
The next day, light rain starts as soon as we set off, and it
doesn’t stop for the next 28 hours. It becomes clear how the cloud forest got
its name and how flowers can grow high up on a tree trunk without being
parasites. On the old stone steps of a prehispanic trade route, we saunter
along a small river, while the canyon closes in on us. Suddenly, Natascha
stops: “What is this? A piece of black rubber?” But then the small fire salamander
slowly moves. It looks like a toy, with a skin like chocolate pudding and
orange cream and very cute feet. “Don’t touch it!” Ricardo, today’s guide,
rushes back: “It is very poisonous! If it bites you, you will die within three
or four hours.”
In the early afternoon we arrive in the small hamlet of Lachatao.
It has 400 inhabitants, claims Elena, the restaurant owner, but the perceived
population is 20 at its best. We are told to pitch our tent on the lawn in
front of the large 17th century church of Santa Catarina. In the evening, just
after dusk, the door of the church is open, and a faint light flickers out of
the interior. Curiously, Isa takes a closer look. The cramped interior is
lighted by numerous candles, and in the front row three old women are eerily
praying and singing.
The next morning it is still raining. We stuff our wet tent
in a plastic bag and climb on the back of the camioneta, a pick-up functioning
as a local bus. The only other passenger is Michaela, a 55 year old woman in a
grey woollen sweater who is
going to the market “because in Ixtlan food is fresher and cheaper than in the
village shop.” Michaela seems to be less enthusiastic about the eco-tourism project. “How
much did you pay Elena for dinner? And how much did it cost to camp in front of
the church?” she enquires suspiciously. It seems that she is neither familiar
with the aims of the programme, nor feels that she profits from it.
In Ixtlan, we only have to wait for five minutes until a
crammed bus arrives that will take us back over the mountains, to Oaxaca, the big city.
Our fellow passengers are land folk with woollen jackets and large bags, going
to the market. It is still raining, and on the mountain passes the fog is so
thick we can barely see the trees along the road. The adolescent driver chats
merrily with his similarly youthful conductor and sings along with the
schmaltzy songs his tape recorder roars through the bus. When we arrive in the
valley of Oaxaca, the sky clears up, and the passengers take off their jumpers
and head for the market.