The Roadtrip is the Western take on the search for self-discovery. In a culture severely lacking in contemplative values, we have turned to the outside world in order to discover ourselves. Every personal legend worth its salt must include one or several ventures into the unknown. Every single one of those must be overly romanticized. It is mandatory that a deep, unwavering belief be shattered during the course of it, and that renewed faith in the portents of God/Buddha/Nature/Dog be acquired. Such is the nature of the roadtrip.

Bukowski’s version included drinking away self-loathing until you wake up with an IV sticking out of your arm. Hemingway’s was remarkably similar (with the possible addition of shooting someone along the way). Kerouac’s roadtrip was a way of life.

Our roadtrip started on a Saturday, after we decided to make good on a plan we had hatched since high-school. Our destiny was South-Eastern México and its thereabouts, in the fuzziest possible sense.

Due to time constraints we took a car with us, even though it wasn’t a good candidate to make it into Guatemala. Down there, the car was a rare commodity, and thus provided an easy way of meeting new people. We quickly became accustomed to travelling packed.

Near Palenque, just a hundred yards before the official looking concrete entrance that holds the government notice warning not to harm the national park, you can turn left and go through a small sandy path that leads to Pan-Chan. There, for 15 pesos (slightly over a dollar) you get two posts to hang your hammock from and a hay roof. There are no walls and jungle all around. A benefit of the near-equatorial climate is that usually a blanket is all you need, no matter what season you’re in.

Pan-Chan is divided into two main sections. Rakshitas is a spiritual center for the followers of Gurumayi Chidvilasananda and has an excellent restaurant that specializes in vegetarian cooking. The place is full of vegan new age types, their hammocks arranged in dozens that all start from a common post and extend outward. There are deeply religious reasons for this but I never inquired about them. We stayed in the other section, where most european backpackers end up sooner or later.

The dutch girls hopped into the already crowded car. Grinning from ear to ear, they exchanged a complicity glance. Almost whispering: “We bought posh. We’ll drink it tonight with the rest of the guys!”. From under one of the girls — her back pressing my arm against the roof — I shot an inquisitory glance at Fernando.

- An alcoholic beverage. Not completely distilled. Drink enough, you start hallucinating.
- Ah. mmhhh… so…
- Lack of oxygen to the brain.
- Oh. Tonight should be fun.

Drums have become something of a staple of the backpacking culture. They are built from an enormous variety of materials (a personal favorite: the Choco-Quick container, which can also double up as water-proof storage bin). That night, three of the guys fished theirs out of their backpacks and started doing improvs on the spot. The two dutch girls showed off their new discovery and we started passing bottles and cigarettes around.

- wan a smoke?
- that have tobacco in it?
- yeah, some.
- nah, thanks. I don’t smoke tobacco.
- ‘k. jus pas it on…

In the background we could hear echoes from at least twenty drums from the Italian restaurant (owned by a once-traveller that fell in love with Panchan). We all huddled around our makeshift campfire — a lantern pointing up with a cloth half covering it — and exchanged stories.

Soft singing was still heard when I hunched inside my hammock and closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness.

Morning.

After stretching, Emily took off her jeans and set them aside, she then laid on the floor on her butt and arched her back slightly as she removed her panties and hung them absentmindedly from her hammock. She grabbed another pair and put it on, oblivious to the world around her. At her side, Gabo started stuttering while I faked an air of world weariness, trying not to stare too much.

Emily was from London. She was short and sported thick treadlocks and an impossibly big smile. A volunteer international observer for some Human Rights Organization, she was supposed to go to a community and live for a month with the indigenas. They’d feed and house her, and she would report any human rights transgressions from the Mexican army or the Zapatistas. That was my first reminder that we were in a Guerilla afflicted area.

We would run into Emily three more times over the course of two weeks, each in a different city. The third time Gabo asked her if we could take a picture with her.

People in Pan-Chan were all from different backgrounds. There was a couple that belonged to some sort of Gaia cult. They didn’t drink, dressed mostly in white and had an air of lost hippiehood. They’d have fit better at Woodstock than they did with us. There was the guy who specialized in snapping bones (a skill that turned out to be handier that I would’ve thought). There were mushroom growers in search of new seeds, and a lot of people hailing from Australia, Germany, France, Canada and all sorts of different countries.

We were the only mexicans.

— sergio on March 24, 2004