I'm spending this week in a deep, long gash across a dramatic mountainous landscape called Sumidero Canyon. The Rio Grijalva, on which Hernan Cortez had his first skirmish with natives and met his indigenous mistress Malinche, rushes thru on its way to the coast. Our fiberglass craft bitch-slapped the river spirit for miles, which can surely come to no good.
Crocodiles with razor teeth and spiked tails smiled at us from the banks, while spider monkeys slouched lazily over jutting limbs. City-sized rock slabs, inhabited by thousands of vultures, rose diagonally out of the water. Sheer walls, from which defeated tribespeople jumped rather than surrender to conquistadors, towered over me filling the sky.
