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ay Five. We hired a Mayan cabby to take us to the ruins of Cobá, where we convinced a couple of German women to throw in their lots with us and bribed a Mayan guide to take us to the "unauthorized" parts of the ruins. This brought the cost down considerably, being split among four people. Afterwards, we hopped back in the cab and hot-tailed it to Valladolid, where the Don obtained some much-needed cash at a bank. After a lengthy round of haggling over the fare, our driver agreed to take us on to Chichén Itzá, where we arrived in time to catch the Spring Solstice "ceremonies." A peculiar shadow of a serpent appeared on the side of the main pyramid, caused by the sun striking the pyramid’s staircase at a certain angle. Less impressive were the hordes of pot-smoking hippies and other tourists who thronged around the pyramid. We met Seattle natives Michael, Renée and her son Nicholas and had dinner at a café that wasn’t as outrageously expensive as everything else in town.

Day Eight. The Don told me to "skip a bit" in the Trav-O-Log. "Some things are better left unsaid," he observed. We’ve been staying in lovely Mérida and beachcombing in nearby Progreso, where the world’s largest pier stretches four miles into the sea. Couldn’t even see the end of it. Today we went to Dzibilchaltún (don’t ask me how to pronounce that) where a seedy-looking youth accosted us outside the ruins. He said his name was Francisco Villa and claimed to be a direct descendent of Pancho Villa. The Don and I ridiculed his claim until he pulled out a time-worn garment that proved to be none other than Pancho Villa’s poncho! ’Cisco, as we now called him, gave us a tour of the ruins and pointed out the setting sun through the windows of the main temple. This spectacle can only be seen around

the Spring or Fall Solstice, so we got lucky. I offered to buy ’Cisco’s poncho, but he would not part with it for any price. Not long afterwards, he made himself scarce, claiming he had to visit his tio (uncle), Sancho, in the neighboring village. Funny. Earlier, he had said all his relatives were dead…

Day Ten. Yesterday we traveled our butts off, stopping on the so-called "Ruta Puuc" at the ruins of Kabáh, Sayil, Labná and Uxmal, then journeyed on to Campeche, finally took the infamous night bus to Palenque where we staked out rooms at the world-famous Hotel La Cañada. OK, maybe not exactly world-famous, but fairly reputable at least… The Ruins of Palenque impressed us to no end, but I became ill-tempered in the 90° heat and 95% humidity. Hordes of Krauts and Frogs (excuse me, Germans and French) swarmed over most of the buildings and I nearly reached for my snub-nosed .45 when a Frenchwoman started screaming at the Don (in Frog) to get the hell out of her way ’cause she was taking a picture of the main temple. At least, I think that’s what she said. "First of all, you’re not speaking a language that’s understood anywhere in this hemisphere except maybe Haiti and Quebec," sneered the Don, "and second of all, I got every right as you to be standing here takin’ a picture…" Frogwoman clearly didn’t understand this, but the Don took his picture and we went on our way.

Day Thirteen. The last few days, the Don left me to run errands while he enjoyed himself in San Cristóbal de las Casas. Early this afternoon we arrived at the Guatemalan border crossing of La Mesilla after taking a "taxi" from the Mexican border checkpoint at Ciudad Cuahtemoc a few miles away. The taxi was a beaten-up station wagon and I almost went for the snub-nosed again when the driver nearly killed us by backing into a

 —Charley Hod
(The Don’s Towel Carrier)

MEXICO