A lot'a piss.

Just navigating the aisle to the bus back bathroom, much less landing a stream of urine in the toilet with one wobbly hand while the other grips a safety rail for the stability to prevent ones skull from playing pinball with the claustrophobic walls, is a treacherous undertaking on a first class bus winding down the speedbump-littered mountain pass from San Cristóbal de las Casas to Palenque.

We're leaving the crisp altitudinal clime for buggy jungle, trading sweatshirts for layers of sunscreen and insect repellent. If plans progress accordingly, we'll visit Palenque's ruins this afternoon and be on our way to Guatemala tomorrow, though I vow to return to Mexico before home, once I have a conversational command of Spanish, for a more thoroughly authentic experience. And to fulfull Michigan-made summer promises to spot an elusive Chupacabra; what I do upon discovery is a mystery for the moment.

Chiapas is a gorgeous, mountainous state, with outcroppings of money averting the casual observer's attention from the pervasive poverty. Shacks and shanties seem the norm, leaky-roofed showers perhaps as likely as any other for their inhabitants. Mornings are delicate and serene, sleepy towns waking up as wisps of smoke curl skyward, the odd worker trudging uphill, wares in tow, to some roadside stand, woodwalled and tinroofed, hoping for a day's take of peses that wouldn't cover my Chick-Fil-A dinner back home.

But a pile of pan dulce those pesos will afford, and probably do, judging by the carbohydrate paunch that is such a popular accessory amongst Mexicans. But I empathize, unable to honor my daily swearing off of pastries, failing every time I pass another panaderia. Running better make its way back into my daily routine before I fulfill the jealous wishes of every fatty who's ever witnessed this lean-boy's buffet dominance. For now, at least, metabolism suffices.

Maybe I'll get a chance to workout on the court, basketball so far appearing more the national sport than futbol, soccer jersey-clad, one-hand dominant Spud Webb wannabes clogging lanes not penalty boxes, vying for rebounds. The universal language of sport sounds ideal, my pathetic Spanish alarmingly unimproved after eleven days of immersion; reconciling my instant-gratification-or-give-up nature with the long-term burden of learning a language is a struggle. If I'm immune to the purported wonder-working of Guatemalan language schools, the six-month minimum I've imposed upon this trip could shrivel faster than a forlorn alcoholic's skin in the Central American sun.