Mexican Waterworld

Because just one day trip on the water in Mexico isn't enough, last weekend I doubled my water fun by taking a twilight boat ride on Friday and an all-day rafting trip on Saturday.

The slow cruise down the Xochimilco canals in Mexico City's far south is one of those activities that ex-pats living in the city nearly tire of, they do it so much. I, however, had tired of saying "no" (approximately seven times) every time the opportunity arrived. So when Paul decided he wanted to take his visiting brother and sister down the dubiously clean waterways, I concurred (as did Matt and my roomie Humberto).

Xochimilco is pretty far away. It requires riding the metro to the very end of the line, then either taking a cab or hopping on the light rail train. We arrived around 6:30 p.m., and even though the sky was ominously cloudy and thunder was clapping, we escaped Mexico City's predictable evening showers. At the docks, a countless number of wooden rafts is lined up in rows, and you have to walk over four or so to get to the farthest one out. The wooden "lanchas" are painted bright, happy primary colors, and they smartly feature roofs. The dugout floor is complete with chairs and a table, as the essential purpose of making the trip is either to have a family picnic or a sloppy, drunk blowout at 0.002 miles/hour. We settled for a few beers and Mexi-flavored potato chips.

As any guide book will tell you, Xochimilco is a fascinating community seemingly worlds away from the city's interior. Most people there live along the water, taking tiny water taxis to get to places. Many people are farmers or gardeners - one of the city's best flower/plant market is in Xochi. Boat riders pay by the hour for their canal-tastic tour; we paid about 180 pesos for two hours. The ride is ridiculously slow, as an 18-year-old jóven pushed us along by stabbing a long, wooden pole into the water and pushing off the bottom. Passing boats was a little silly, because when you move that slow, you're essentially joined side-by-side with random families and there's no way to hide your curious stares. The best boats to pass were the ones loaded with teenagers guzzling bottles of booze without any parental supervision to stop them. And, despite the feeling of virtual isolation, if you need anything along the waterway, the boat pusher-boy can probably help you find it. We made a beer run once in front of a bare bone, wooden shack, which apparently marked the entrance to a little store somewhere down the path. Various restaurants or greenhouses also provided potties for a 4-peso pee fee.

Saturday was a much faster ride, but still kinda slow. Early in the morning, Laura and I walked over to meet up with some friends of friends who had put together a rafting trip near the Morelos/Guerrero state lines. As we carpooled down and over for about two hours, I marveled at the majestic beauty of the giant green mountains, clear blue sky and sweeping landscapes that are usually denied in Mexico City. But as soon as we pulled up in front of the starting point along the river, I realized we were standing under the gateway to the Cacahuamilpa caves, a trip I'd made with Azul some months back. So much for seeing new places.

No one in our nine-person boat had ever been rafting before, except for Tim, who had been various times in Mexico and used to raft in West Virginia. The river was a mystical shade of brown, and if it wasn't for the dirt and rock sediment that crunched between my teeth when we got splashed, I might've thought it was the chocolate river from Willy Wonka's factory.

The river is a Level 2, meaning it's the second-easiest level of all possible rafting experiences. However, that did not keep us from slamming into a rock wall and subsequently flipping the raft when gliding down the first rapid we encountered. After I fell out, I was stuck in the churning rapid, like a vertical whirlpool, and despite earlier instructions to not panic, I panicked. I started kicking as violently as I could, extending my arms forward in hopes of finding the surface (I also forgot that I was wearing a life jacket and would inevitably float to the top). When I did reach the top, I was stuck under the boat, so I just kept panicking and flailing until I surfaced, gasping for breath as if I'd nearly died after one minute of submersion.

I'm kinda glad that we flipped, though, because not only does it make a charming story for my blog, but it also provided more excitement than we would've otherwise experienced down the river. Not to brush aside the experience - it was a lot of fun - but it was nothing that the 10-year-old in our boat couldn't handle, either. The river was low despite it being the rainy season, and our nine bodies in the boat frequently meant we got stuck on the rocks. Sometimes we had to get out and push it along the more shallow parts.

At one point, the other rafting team and six or so kayakers got out when we crossed under a bridge. I followed Laura's more adventurous lead and climbed up the hillside. With one of the rafting guides, we crossed the squeaky, creaky bridge made out of rebar (the twisted metal rods that stick out of people's unfinished concrete block houses). I again thought that I might die, particularly when another rafter hopped on after me, her weight causing the bridge to swing left, right, left, right. But make it across we did, and after a five minute break to slow down my heart beat, we crossed back over to safety and resumed our casual raft ride down the river.

The end point lead us to the house where we'd first dropped off our stuff. The eco-tourism company we went with had apparently made friends with the family that lived there, who let us park our cars, use the toilet and change out of our river-stained clothes. We even ate weird gooey fruit that had fallen off the tree. After we attempted to freshen up, all 20-something of us walked down the road to a small restaurant, plastic chairs and all. The food was OK, typical roadside Mexican food, but the beer was a delicious 9 pesos a bottle (that's about 70 cents). The bathroom was also a treat: to reach it, you walked up a narrow concrete staircase to the second floor, a one-room space with a door to the balcony. That door was kept open, because behind it hid the toilet, which sat under a spiral staircase, the TP on one of the metal steps and the used paper placed inside an overflowing plastic bucket. After a long, late car ride home, a shower never felt so great.