It is nigh impossible to get photos uploaded and posted on this blog... so William has put all of our photos up on Facebook. We´ve got over 500 photos.. and counting!
Click on the link below to browse our pics. One day I´ll get some snarky captions to go with each of the photos so we´ll all know what the hell they are, but until then just enjoy them for their artistic value...
Mexico - Volume 1
Mexico - Volume 2
Mexico - Volume 3
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Trail of Tears
Our bus to Oaxaca ("Wuh-hock-uh" if you are reading this aloud to your children) is actually a whie Volvo mini-van that seats (well, officially) fourteen. From past experience in Guatemala, these vans actually aren´t a bad way to travel - they´re affordable, quick and direct and much more personable than those huge first class space buses. Sometimes called colectivos or simply "tourist buses", they are predominately ridden by gringos. This bus is costing us $120 pesos each for the six hour drive to the steamy town of Pochutla where we will than have to find onward travel for the last 40 kilometers or so to the beach town of Zipolite, our day´s final destination. Before we depart, as I sit in the little dilapidated store front that serves as a bus terminal, I barely catch this little footnote in our guidebook:
"Pochutla... is 245 km away by the curvy Highway 175... Drivers will usually stop when you need a bathroom break, or want to take photos (or vomit, as some people tend to do on this route)."
Hmmmm. Vomit. What??
As our packs are strapped to the roof´s luggage rack I make one last stop to the, ahem, bathroom. This one is a dank, greasy stall in what looks like a back alley in Baghdad.
With no toilet paper. But of course I don´t discover that little fact until it is too late. To avoid an awfully uncomfortable bus ride, I very briefly consider "recycling" some of the paper in the bin beside the toilet. My standards of sanitation have plummeted in only three short weeks. But even I am too proud to wipe myself with someone else´s poo stained paper, so I tear a sheet out of my notebook, fold it up, and take care of business. This is my life.
I am looking forawrd to relaxing on the beach, catching up on my writing, and otherwise do nothing for a few days. But first we have to get there...
The ride starts innocently enough out of Oaxaca, south through the Valles Centrales. The scenery is dull, more landscape parched by the dry, hot season, lots of dusty little bored villages, the occasional pack mule ambling on its way to market. A bit further outside the city the road begins to deteroriate. Its about 40 percent paved, as if someome started to build a road, got tired along the way, and then just stopped. There are whole 5 kilometer stretches that have been recently paved with black top, smooth and level. And then, without warning, the road dissolves into pot holes, pebbles and sand, sending the van into a series of jolts, wobbles, and un-shockabsorbed thwumps!
William, happily dozing next to me, is blissfully unaware. Then the road starts to twist and turn, winding back and forth, around itself, up and down, over, under, ninety degree hairpin turns. The driver is a maniac. He whips the van around the impossible curves at alarming speeds. Sheer drops of hundreds of feet greet us on each side. No railings here. Just prayers. Cars and vans (and sometimes mules and pedestrians) are on the opposite side of the road coming down from the mountains, driving equally as crazy. Our driver plays an insane game of chicken as he passes a slow moving vehicle in our lane, only to meet another white van now barreling down at us head on on the left side of the road. William is awake by now - only a corpse could sleep though this - and at first we are laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. It is kind of fun. Like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster about to shoot off the tracks. I am grabbing on to the seat belt strap hanging above my head, white knuckling it the whole way. The turns are dramatic, severe, sharp. We are two wheeling it at times, Dukes of Hazard style, mostly riding on the wrong side of the road until another car approaches and we screech adn whip suddenly back into the right lane, all at 60 miles per hour. Oh, and the driver is on his cell phone. With one hand on the wheel.
The lush, green mountain scenery would be beautiful if we were not flirting with disaster. I try to write in my journal but I can´t keep the words on the page. Words like: absurd, harrowing, kamikazee, death wish, nauseating, stomach churning (by now, William is lying supine in the rear of the van, trying not to loose his breakfast), death-defying, trail of tears... We stop briefly at a roadside rest stop (hut? shack?) where we all tumble out of the van, sweating and laughing, happy (and shocked) to be alive. In hindsight, we should have stayed there. I could have got a job cleaning out the thirld world toilets and perhaps William could have showed them how to make a real cup of coffee. Instead, we re-boarded the death-mobile and continued to tempt fate for a few more hours, stopping periodically on the side of the road to pick up more passengers, cramming in stick-thin locals and their heavy wares until there was no room to move and no air to breathe.
We finally made it out of the mountains and into the lowland tropical forests, dotted by coconut palms, tangles of hanging vines, and deep red hibiscus. It was a glorious sight. Welcome to Pochutla. Our bus mercifully goes no further.
And if that road is the only way back, we plan to live here foreeevvverrrrrrr!
"Pochutla... is 245 km away by the curvy Highway 175... Drivers will usually stop when you need a bathroom break, or want to take photos (or vomit, as some people tend to do on this route)."
Hmmmm. Vomit. What??
As our packs are strapped to the roof´s luggage rack I make one last stop to the, ahem, bathroom. This one is a dank, greasy stall in what looks like a back alley in Baghdad.
I am looking forawrd to relaxing on the beach, catching up on my writing, and otherwise do nothing for a few days. But first we have to get there...
The ride starts innocently enough out of Oaxaca, south through the Valles Centrales. The scenery is dull, more landscape parched by the dry, hot season, lots of dusty little bored villages, the occasional pack mule ambling on its way to market. A bit further outside the city the road begins to deteroriate. Its about 40 percent paved, as if someome started to build a road, got tired along the way, and then just stopped. There are whole 5 kilometer stretches that have been recently paved with black top, smooth and level. And then, without warning, the road dissolves into pot holes, pebbles and sand, sending the van into a series of jolts, wobbles, and un-shockabsorbed thwumps!
William, happily dozing next to me, is blissfully unaware. Then the road starts to twist and turn, winding back and forth, around itself, up and down, over, under, ninety degree hairpin turns. The driver is a maniac. He whips the van around the impossible curves at alarming speeds. Sheer drops of hundreds of feet greet us on each side. No railings here. Just prayers. Cars and vans (and sometimes mules and pedestrians) are on the opposite side of the road coming down from the mountains, driving equally as crazy. Our driver plays an insane game of chicken as he passes a slow moving vehicle in our lane, only to meet another white van now barreling down at us head on on the left side of the road. William is awake by now - only a corpse could sleep though this - and at first we are laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. It is kind of fun. Like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster about to shoot off the tracks. I am grabbing on to the seat belt strap hanging above my head, white knuckling it the whole way. The turns are dramatic, severe, sharp. We are two wheeling it at times, Dukes of Hazard style, mostly riding on the wrong side of the road until another car approaches and we screech adn whip suddenly back into the right lane, all at 60 miles per hour. Oh, and the driver is on his cell phone. With one hand on the wheel.
The lush, green mountain scenery would be beautiful if we were not flirting with disaster. I try to write in my journal but I can´t keep the words on the page. Words like: absurd, harrowing, kamikazee, death wish, nauseating, stomach churning (by now, William is lying supine in the rear of the van, trying not to loose his breakfast), death-defying, trail of tears... We stop briefly at a roadside rest stop (hut? shack?) where we all tumble out of the van, sweating and laughing, happy (and shocked) to be alive. In hindsight, we should have stayed there. I could have got a job cleaning out the thirld world toilets and perhaps William could have showed them how to make a real cup of coffee. Instead, we re-boarded the death-mobile and continued to tempt fate for a few more hours, stopping periodically on the side of the road to pick up more passengers, cramming in stick-thin locals and their heavy wares until there was no room to move and no air to breathe.
We finally made it out of the mountains and into the lowland tropical forests, dotted by coconut palms, tangles of hanging vines, and deep red hibiscus. It was a glorious sight. Welcome to Pochutla. Our bus mercifully goes no further.
And if that road is the only way back, we plan to live here foreeevvverrrrrrr!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Oaxaca-Waka-Waka
It´s 6AM... we must be in a new Mexican town! With only a few hours of fitful sleep, we arrive in Oaxaca City, capital of Oaxaca State, Southern Mexico. We´ve got one day to take in Oaxaca before we head out towards the Pacific and the promise of cheaper pastures. We check in to the Paulina Youth Hostel - and look, by now, I´m starting to resent the "youth" part. Old people need cheap places to stay, too. Paulina is staffed by a hilariously unfriendly front desk receptionist, hair slicked back like a pelican taking a BP oil bath, wearing a navy blue blazer, and a stern, stoic expression. Like most people who run hostels in Mexico, he is seventeen. Paulina runs a tight ship. We are handed our towels and sheets and told to make up our own beds and then asked for a 50 peso key deposit, which we will forfeit if we misplace our key. We are told that we can have breakfast tomorrow morning but not this morning unless we want to pay extra. Breakfast is only served to those with pre-printed Breakfast Tickets. Paulina, loosen up, girl.
We take a three hour early morning nap and then hit the ground running. I instantly like Oaxaca. It is small and quaint (well, in comparison to where we have been, at least), colorful, artisitc - much more "foreign". In a good way. It has the feel of colonial Antigua, Guatemala with its brightly painted buildings, tree shaded parks, and cobblestone streets.
We spot many more tourists here. It is, quite simply, a beautiful and charming place. Our day starts with a stop at Cafe La Brujula for some authentic organic Oaxaqueña coffee. William splurges for a homemade bagel and cream cheese, which is decidely un-Mexican, but a delicious reminder of home, especially considering our new diet´s heavy emphasis on the corn tortilla. Then there is the requisite visit to the main cathedral - which is never unimpressive. But honestly, once you have seen one, you´ve pretty much seen them all. There´s Plastic Jesus again, bleeding in a plexi-glass coffin.
What makes Oaxaca´s cathedral remarkable - aside from the awe-inspiring vaulted ceilings, the ornate gold altars, the stained glass - are the ridiculous amount of balloons being sold in the public spaces surrounding. Thousands of balloons. Shiny mylars in a myriad of colors and sizes, stars, hearts, piñatas. My Little Ponys. Dora the Explorer. SpongeBob Squarepants. 10 foor long crayola crayons. They´re everywhere. It is completely absurd.
We next take the advice of our Lonely Planet guidebook and visit a local Mezcal merchant. A word or two about Mezcal is necessary at this point as it will feature prominently in the rest of our day here.
Mezcal is a spirit distilled from the agave plant, the same plant from which we get tequila - whose joys we have already extolled here. Long considered tequila´s cheap and barely drinkable cousin - ever seen the bottle with the worm at the bottom? - that´s Mezcal. The best mezcal in Mexico is said to come from Oaxaca state and it should never have a worm in it. And the worm does not make you hallucinate. That´s a tale apparently for gullible gringos. It is sipped straight with slices of orange and a small plate of salt flavored with hot chili.
Enter the Union de Paleñqueros de Oaxaca. A tiny, scrappy little temple to mezcal. The walls are painted a crumbling blue and are lined with shelves of housemade spirits bottled in second-hand glass, plump wooden barrels and various implements of distillation. It looks like an ancient apothecary shop or an alchemist´s. Along the counter to the right sit large glass vats of various mezcal concoctions, stewing with apples, citrus fruits, and various herbs, spices and tree barks.
The girl behind the counter is fifteen. And she is a veritible mezcal expert. We get a mini-crash course. complete with samples. Blanco is clear and unaged. Bitter, woody, very strong. This is the "cheap shit", as the kids say. Reposado is better, a mellow amber tone. Añejo is the best, aged the longest, darker in color, sweet and rich, like brandy or a nice scotch. Then there are the cremas - colorful, milky and infused with fruit. Strawberry is a pretty rose pink. Passion fruit is sort of orange.
While we are getting tipsy on free samples, a local man comes in with a sizeable plastic gasoline canister. The girl fills it with the smoky mezcal while he waits and smiles a big toothy grin at us. "Es muy bueno." Ha. Obviously. I ask him what he is doing with all that booze. He says he sells it by the cup in the zocalo. "Es legal?" I ask. "Claro." As if one couldn´t just enjoy an adult beverage out in public. Oh America, you´re so uptight. He then tell us to get the reposado as it is best for casual drinking. And by that he clearly means getting drunk for cheap. We taste again just to be sure. "Cuanto cuesto por una botella?" "Cinquenta por un litro." 50 pesos?! For a liter? That´s like, less than four dollars. We´ve hit the Mexican lottery. We briefly consider buying a hundred bottles and going into business, but clearer heads prevail and we settle on just one. It is surely the best deal of my adult life.
Flush with the endorphins of a hoarder at a thrift store, we head off to the market for some local color and cheap eats. Our iron stomachs have so far withstood repeated onslaughts of street food and, by this point in our journey, we are brave and undeterred by either sanitation or good sense. Which is probably why William readily volunteers to eat grasshoppers. Fried in oil and chili. It tastes just like it sounds. Huge mounds of the reddish-brown creatures are piled in woven baskets lining the street in front of the marketplace. Bored-looking grannies stand guard, hoping to entice someone to buy.
William gets a sample. He winces. We run. I fare much better a a lunch counter run by a friendly Doña named Bety. That´s my mother´s name, I tell her. She smiles and invites us to sit at her counter. "We are all Bety." She gestures to the other woman cooking with her, three generations of grandmothers, mothers, and daughters. All Betys. I am here to try Oaxaca´s most famous contribution to Mexican cuisine, mole, that rich, complex sauce stewed with spices, vegetables, chiles, and chocolate. Here Bety serves me chile rellenos, green poblano peppers, stuffed with stringy Oaxacan cheese, dipped in egg batter and deep fried. Then coated with mole negro.
Heavenly.
William can still taste grasshopper on his tounge.
Having got a taste earlier, we are anxious to get down to some serious mezcal drinking. We breeze past the brightly painted colonial stone buildings, the endless racks of handsewn Zapotec costumes,
breezy Mexican dresses adorned with needlepoint flowers, florescent striped fabrics, blankets, a dazzling selection of jewelery - grand polished stones, turqoise, amber, opals.
Frida Kahlo´s mother was Oaxacan-born and Frida´s love of her Zapotec heritage was reflected not only in her art but in her personal style as well. Her spirit obviously still lives on in the colorful streets here. My favorite are the cardboard Frida mannequins, dressed in voluminus red ruffled skirts and embroidered peasant blouses, complete with unibrow.
Since our arrival in Mexico we have been so far unsuccessful in our search of the fabled Mexican cantina that serves botanas - free snacks to those customers who pay to drink. I am assuming these are not on offer at the tourist joints we pass, since most Mexicans are doing their level best to squeeze every last peso out of us. We once saw Anthony Bourdain on the Food Network visit Mexico City . He was shown an unnamed bar in the capital that served, in his estimation, the most wonderful food. The catch - there was no menu and the only way to get the food was to drink. Each new round brought a table full of tasty delights - botanas. The more you drink, the more food comes your way. Which is probably a good thing. So here we are at The Casa de Mezcal, on a scrappy side street near the market.
The exterior is painted bright yellow and blue, but inside it is dark and wood paneled with huge dull colored murals covering the walls, most depicting bloody conflict between Aztec warriors and Spanish conquistadores. There are no women inside, except for the waitress. The bar is full of men who look a bit worse for the wear - it is only 4pm after all. Each of them has at least six empty beer bottles lined up in front of them. Either a badge of courage or a Mexican accounting system. In any case, it is a perfect place to drink. We order a couple new varieties of mezcal and two Indios, my new favorite local beer. (A bit surprisingly, Corona is actually quite popular here with locals. It isn´t just the stereotypical beer American college kids drink at their ironic Cinco de Mayo parties). Our mezcals are served with oranges and salt mixed with chili. And then, without asking, we are given a plate of crispy tostadas slathered with stewed chicken. For free! At that moment, I didn´t care that I was a vegetarian. We had found them. The elusive botanas. Every bar should be like this! I scraped the chicken off and ate my soggy tostada with a gusto only someone consuming free food can manage. When you are living on a backpacker budget, free food is the most delicious kind. Now if we could just find a place with free beer...
Later, flushed with more mezcal, we stroll the streets of the crowded zocalo, soaking in the sights as all of Oaxaca city takes to the streets to enjoy the evening breeze. We are surprised by a concert in the ornate baroque iron gazebo in the alameda given by the symphony orchestra of Oaxaca.
They play a John Philip Sousa march. We listen and drink our mezcal, wincing at the taste and rapidly sucking on limes, all in 4/4 time. An old lady next to us tries to strike up a conversation with William. "De donde eres?" But all he can say is "uuuuuhhhgghhhghhh...." while making silly faces and waving his hands over his head. I think this is supposed to mean "No hablo español." The lady giggles and pokes her friend. "Lo siento" I say. "Mi amigo es un payaso loco." "Ahh, ya ya, si si si. Oy. Oy. Siiiiiiii." says William, his head bobbing weaving, arms outstreached, signifying absolutely nothing.
The rest of the night is hazy to say the least. Thanks to the mezcal and to my amigo loco. At some point in the evening we meet two random guys on the street. I´m pretty sure William strikes up a conversation based solely on the fact that one of them is wearing tight bright blue pants. They are Oaxacans (which makes them sound like they are from outer space, but they are not.) They are somewhere around our ages and out for a night on the town. They introduce themselves to us as Jorge and Roosevelt. Roosevelt?? "Like you president," he says with his thick accent. "Ah, George was the name of our first president and Roosevelt was our best. You know, the cherry tree and the WPA. Washington and Franklin Delano." Haha. Whatever. They don´t speak very good English, I don´t speak enough Spanish, and, well, William just grins and flaps.
They take us to an out of the way local bar where several litres of beer are brought to our table along with more mezcal. We drink. Roosevelt sings weepy karaoke in Zapotec. We comb the files for Lady Gaga - I have kindly offered to sing "Alejandro" - because, you know, it´s kind of Mexican. But no luck. More mezcal puts us on our hostel´s rooftop terrace, admiring the stars and the views of the mountains. I know this because there are approximately fifty photos on my camera of the four of us posing suggestively with the mezcal bottle, hanging over the side of the building, standing on chairs, and reinacting Mexico´s Next Top Model.
We realize we never had dinner, so Jorge and Roosevelt take us to have Oaxaca´s favorite street snack - the tlayuada. I still can´t pronounce it. This place is packed with all walks of life - from dusty tourists to taxi drivers to overdressed women in high heels and mini dresses. The tlayuada is a stupidly large tortilla, slathered with refried beans, cheese and salsa, folded over itself and grilled over hot coals. I know that I ate a whole one because, again, there are photos. We eat, we drink, we come close to death. It is two in the morning and we have an early bus to catch. Except our new friends don´t have any money. So we have to pay. They walk us back to our hosel with the promise of getting some money for us, but now Roosevelt doesn´t want to leave because he has taken a liking ot William´s very exotic American Apparel v-neck t-shirt. "I´m not just giving you my shirt."
"For trade." he says, all pathetic.
"What do you have?"
Roosevelt takes off his wooden crucifix. I am quite sure this will result in some ancient Zapotec curse, so I intervene. "No, no. No one is trading anything. Time to go home."
But by this time, William and Roosevelt have switched shirts and Roosevelt is admiring his new look in the mirror. "Por favor, por favor?" Now he is one of those ancient women on the steps of the cathedral begging for pesos.
"No."
"Por favorrrr.?" Sad face. Bottom lip turns out. What was at first a friendly night out has fast turned into a multi-national situation. I wonder briefly if I should call the US Embassy.
Roosevelt will not remove William´s shirt. A drunken scuffle is on its way.
I´m convinced they are going to rob us. I wonder if he has a knife? Maybe we should just give him the damn shirt and cut our losses. I´m in the background screaming "American Apparel dot com! American Apparel dot com! You can order your very own!" Then William digs in my bag and pulls out one of my shirts. Roosevelt´s eyes widen. He likey.
Oh no, not mine! I only have four shirts for this whole trip!
"Por favorrrrr."
Now he´s creeping me out.
"Look, please don´t kill us. I paid for dinner. You have to go now."
William wrestles his shirt off Roosevelt´s back and we very kindly shove them out onto the street. Its 3AM. The alarm is set to go off in 4 hours. I quickly get ready for bed and lock the door. William is, of course, already passed out.
And just before I turn off the lights, I notice he is in bed, clutching all of his t-shirts to his chest, in a mighty death grip.
Who knew. Most tourists get held up for money or credit cards. We almost get hijacked for slim fit cotton.
We take a three hour early morning nap and then hit the ground running. I instantly like Oaxaca. It is small and quaint (well, in comparison to where we have been, at least), colorful, artisitc - much more "foreign". In a good way. It has the feel of colonial Antigua, Guatemala with its brightly painted buildings, tree shaded parks, and cobblestone streets.
We next take the advice of our Lonely Planet guidebook and visit a local Mezcal merchant. A word or two about Mezcal is necessary at this point as it will feature prominently in the rest of our day here.
Mezcal is a spirit distilled from the agave plant, the same plant from which we get tequila - whose joys we have already extolled here. Long considered tequila´s cheap and barely drinkable cousin - ever seen the bottle with the worm at the bottom? - that´s Mezcal. The best mezcal in Mexico is said to come from Oaxaca state and it should never have a worm in it. And the worm does not make you hallucinate. That´s a tale apparently for gullible gringos. It is sipped straight with slices of orange and a small plate of salt flavored with hot chili.
Enter the Union de Paleñqueros de Oaxaca. A tiny, scrappy little temple to mezcal. The walls are painted a crumbling blue and are lined with shelves of housemade spirits bottled in second-hand glass, plump wooden barrels and various implements of distillation. It looks like an ancient apothecary shop or an alchemist´s. Along the counter to the right sit large glass vats of various mezcal concoctions, stewing with apples, citrus fruits, and various herbs, spices and tree barks.
While we are getting tipsy on free samples, a local man comes in with a sizeable plastic gasoline canister. The girl fills it with the smoky mezcal while he waits and smiles a big toothy grin at us. "Es muy bueno." Ha. Obviously. I ask him what he is doing with all that booze. He says he sells it by the cup in the zocalo. "Es legal?" I ask. "Claro." As if one couldn´t just enjoy an adult beverage out in public. Oh America, you´re so uptight. He then tell us to get the reposado as it is best for casual drinking. And by that he clearly means getting drunk for cheap. We taste again just to be sure. "Cuanto cuesto por una botella?" "Cinquenta por un litro." 50 pesos?! For a liter? That´s like, less than four dollars. We´ve hit the Mexican lottery. We briefly consider buying a hundred bottles and going into business, but clearer heads prevail and we settle on just one. It is surely the best deal of my adult life.
Flush with the endorphins of a hoarder at a thrift store, we head off to the market for some local color and cheap eats. Our iron stomachs have so far withstood repeated onslaughts of street food and, by this point in our journey, we are brave and undeterred by either sanitation or good sense. Which is probably why William readily volunteers to eat grasshoppers. Fried in oil and chili. It tastes just like it sounds. Huge mounds of the reddish-brown creatures are piled in woven baskets lining the street in front of the marketplace. Bored-looking grannies stand guard, hoping to entice someone to buy.
William can still taste grasshopper on his tounge.
Having got a taste earlier, we are anxious to get down to some serious mezcal drinking. We breeze past the brightly painted colonial stone buildings, the endless racks of handsewn Zapotec costumes,
Since our arrival in Mexico we have been so far unsuccessful in our search of the fabled Mexican cantina that serves botanas - free snacks to those customers who pay to drink. I am assuming these are not on offer at the tourist joints we pass, since most Mexicans are doing their level best to squeeze every last peso out of us. We once saw Anthony Bourdain on the Food Network visit Mexico City . He was shown an unnamed bar in the capital that served, in his estimation, the most wonderful food. The catch - there was no menu and the only way to get the food was to drink. Each new round brought a table full of tasty delights - botanas. The more you drink, the more food comes your way. Which is probably a good thing. So here we are at The Casa de Mezcal, on a scrappy side street near the market.
Later, flushed with more mezcal, we stroll the streets of the crowded zocalo, soaking in the sights as all of Oaxaca city takes to the streets to enjoy the evening breeze. We are surprised by a concert in the ornate baroque iron gazebo in the alameda given by the symphony orchestra of Oaxaca.
The rest of the night is hazy to say the least. Thanks to the mezcal and to my amigo loco. At some point in the evening we meet two random guys on the street. I´m pretty sure William strikes up a conversation based solely on the fact that one of them is wearing tight bright blue pants. They are Oaxacans (which makes them sound like they are from outer space, but they are not.) They are somewhere around our ages and out for a night on the town. They introduce themselves to us as Jorge and Roosevelt. Roosevelt?? "Like you president," he says with his thick accent. "Ah, George was the name of our first president and Roosevelt was our best. You know, the cherry tree and the WPA. Washington and Franklin Delano." Haha. Whatever. They don´t speak very good English, I don´t speak enough Spanish, and, well, William just grins and flaps.
They take us to an out of the way local bar where several litres of beer are brought to our table along with more mezcal. We drink. Roosevelt sings weepy karaoke in Zapotec. We comb the files for Lady Gaga - I have kindly offered to sing "Alejandro" - because, you know, it´s kind of Mexican. But no luck. More mezcal puts us on our hostel´s rooftop terrace, admiring the stars and the views of the mountains. I know this because there are approximately fifty photos on my camera of the four of us posing suggestively with the mezcal bottle, hanging over the side of the building, standing on chairs, and reinacting Mexico´s Next Top Model.
"For trade." he says, all pathetic.
"What do you have?"
Roosevelt takes off his wooden crucifix. I am quite sure this will result in some ancient Zapotec curse, so I intervene. "No, no. No one is trading anything. Time to go home."
But by this time, William and Roosevelt have switched shirts and Roosevelt is admiring his new look in the mirror. "Por favor, por favor?" Now he is one of those ancient women on the steps of the cathedral begging for pesos.
"No."
"Por favorrrr.?" Sad face. Bottom lip turns out. What was at first a friendly night out has fast turned into a multi-national situation. I wonder briefly if I should call the US Embassy.
Roosevelt will not remove William´s shirt. A drunken scuffle is on its way.
I´m convinced they are going to rob us. I wonder if he has a knife? Maybe we should just give him the damn shirt and cut our losses. I´m in the background screaming "American Apparel dot com! American Apparel dot com! You can order your very own!" Then William digs in my bag and pulls out one of my shirts. Roosevelt´s eyes widen. He likey.
Oh no, not mine! I only have four shirts for this whole trip!
"Por favorrrrr."
Now he´s creeping me out.
"Look, please don´t kill us. I paid for dinner. You have to go now."
William wrestles his shirt off Roosevelt´s back and we very kindly shove them out onto the street. Its 3AM. The alarm is set to go off in 4 hours. I quickly get ready for bed and lock the door. William is, of course, already passed out.
And just before I turn off the lights, I notice he is in bed, clutching all of his t-shirts to his chest, in a mighty death grip.
Who knew. Most tourists get held up for money or credit cards. We almost get hijacked for slim fit cotton.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Gate 13 and a Half
We stayed in Guadalajara two nights and three days, which really was too long. But we needed the rest and the hostel had a roof terrace with chaise lounges and a commanding 360 degree view of the city. We probably could have spent only a day - even though this is Mexico´s second largest city - the main sights are well-concentrated in the city center and it is a very walkable town. We snap photos of the pretty buildings...
chow down on frijoles, quesadillas, and caldo de pescado at the comedores in the enormous Mercado de San Juan de Dios, and enjoy 5 peso soft serve ice cream cones from endless street vendors - our most accomplished budget-friendly discovery in Guadalajara.
It seems that all we do is eat. Or think about eating. Or planning where/how to get our next meal. It is an all-consuming time waster. With food so plentiful and accesible - you are never more than 5 feet away from someone cooking and never more than 10 feet away from one of the best meals of your life - food has become our favorite (OK, only) pasttime. But I am dying for a vegetable. Or a salad. Something green. With apologies to Mexican chefs everywhere, there are really only three vegetables in Mexican cuisine: tomatoes, onions, and chile peppers. Tourists aren´t supposed to eat salad - the lettuce is most likely washed in local, bacteria-filled, undrinkable water. I think I saw a sad, wilted stalk of broccoli in the market the other day, but no doubt he was lost, having fallen off a truck headed for an organic cafe in California.
So here I am, thinking about food again, as we zip south along the highway on another space bus, this one quite a bit more modest in its amenities than before. Hollywood movies dubbed into Spanish blast through the cabin. Right now we are forced to watch something starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, dressed like a tooth fairy. And Julie Andrews is in it. Weird. Outside, parched hills of scrub brush and fields of manicured agave - sprouting anemone-like - amble by, reminding us that we are skipping the 350 peso tour to the Jose Cuervo distillery. Which, honestly, is probably a good thing.
We are starting to be much more budget savvy, discovering far cheaper travel alternatives and comida tipica. A cab from the bus station to central Guadalajara naively cost us 150 pesos. Returning, we find a local bus that only runs us 6 pesos each. Back at the bus station, we are definitely an Amazing Race team again. We bob and weave through the crowds, looking for the next (and cheapest!) bus to Mexico City where we will connect to another bus for Oaxaca. We impulsively decide on one that William says "he has a good feeling about." It leaves in one minute. Of course, poor (or no) planning on our part does not constitute an emergency on the part of the ticket agent, but we try to rush her along, asking if we will have enough time to make the bus before it pulls out. By now, we travel under our Mexican pseudonyms - Guillermo and Juan - because no one understands or can spell our real names. And when I try to spell our names in Spanish to someone, they always write down something like "Celi Robes." The ticket agent assures us we will make the bus, takes our money, and off we run with her direction that the bus leaves between gates 13 and 15. What kind of direction is that?! Wouldn't that just be Gate 14? What is this, Harry Potter? Is the bus set to appear out of some magical, Mexican portal to nowhere? By now we are kind of frantic, shoving our tickets into everyone´s faces and shouting "Mexico! Donde´ esta el bus a Mexico?" "It departs between gates 13 and 15" is all anyone will say. Perhaps this doesn´t need to be said, but there IS no gate 14. Just two parking spaces maked 13 and 15. And nothing between them. There are buses in both spaces, boarding passengers to other destinations, but neither is going via Mexico City. Finally, a kind older lady approaches us and speaks English. She looks at our tickets and confirms that yes, the bus will depart between gates 13 and 15. But wouldn´t that be Gate 14? I ask. Now she´s confused. She asks someone else in a bus company uniform. He says the same thing. What the hell is wrong with this place?
Turns out the bus is 15 minutes late. We watch it pull in, a "Mexico City" sign in the front window. And seriously, it is somehow between gates 13 and 15. I don´t know. Don´t ask.
7 hours and three dubbed movies later, we arrive at the Mexico City Terminal Norte only to discover that all buses to Oaxaca depart from an entirely different terminal totally on the other side of the city which requires us to run an insane backpacker gauntlet involving ankle bending stairs, escalators, 3 different subway lines and a 15 minute jog through a maze of underground tunnels, all whilst laden down with our huge packs. But hey, the subway only costs three pesos each and we were not about to take a taxi.
Three hours in the new bus terminal, waiting for the last bus of the day at 11:55pm. We pay for a second class bus, saving 80 pesos each, which seems like a great deal, until we realize that "second class" is Spanish for "no bathroom on board." For future reference, I´ll gladly pay 80 pesos not to squirm and sweat in my seat for six hours...
It seems that all we do is eat. Or think about eating. Or planning where/how to get our next meal. It is an all-consuming time waster. With food so plentiful and accesible - you are never more than 5 feet away from someone cooking and never more than 10 feet away from one of the best meals of your life - food has become our favorite (OK, only) pasttime. But I am dying for a vegetable. Or a salad. Something green. With apologies to Mexican chefs everywhere, there are really only three vegetables in Mexican cuisine: tomatoes, onions, and chile peppers. Tourists aren´t supposed to eat salad - the lettuce is most likely washed in local, bacteria-filled, undrinkable water. I think I saw a sad, wilted stalk of broccoli in the market the other day, but no doubt he was lost, having fallen off a truck headed for an organic cafe in California.
So here I am, thinking about food again, as we zip south along the highway on another space bus, this one quite a bit more modest in its amenities than before. Hollywood movies dubbed into Spanish blast through the cabin. Right now we are forced to watch something starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, dressed like a tooth fairy. And Julie Andrews is in it. Weird. Outside, parched hills of scrub brush and fields of manicured agave - sprouting anemone-like - amble by, reminding us that we are skipping the 350 peso tour to the Jose Cuervo distillery. Which, honestly, is probably a good thing.
We are starting to be much more budget savvy, discovering far cheaper travel alternatives and comida tipica. A cab from the bus station to central Guadalajara naively cost us 150 pesos. Returning, we find a local bus that only runs us 6 pesos each. Back at the bus station, we are definitely an Amazing Race team again. We bob and weave through the crowds, looking for the next (and cheapest!) bus to Mexico City where we will connect to another bus for Oaxaca. We impulsively decide on one that William says "he has a good feeling about." It leaves in one minute. Of course, poor (or no) planning on our part does not constitute an emergency on the part of the ticket agent, but we try to rush her along, asking if we will have enough time to make the bus before it pulls out. By now, we travel under our Mexican pseudonyms - Guillermo and Juan - because no one understands or can spell our real names. And when I try to spell our names in Spanish to someone, they always write down something like "Celi Robes." The ticket agent assures us we will make the bus, takes our money, and off we run with her direction that the bus leaves between gates 13 and 15. What kind of direction is that?! Wouldn't that just be Gate 14? What is this, Harry Potter? Is the bus set to appear out of some magical, Mexican portal to nowhere? By now we are kind of frantic, shoving our tickets into everyone´s faces and shouting "Mexico! Donde´ esta el bus a Mexico?" "It departs between gates 13 and 15" is all anyone will say. Perhaps this doesn´t need to be said, but there IS no gate 14. Just two parking spaces maked 13 and 15. And nothing between them. There are buses in both spaces, boarding passengers to other destinations, but neither is going via Mexico City. Finally, a kind older lady approaches us and speaks English. She looks at our tickets and confirms that yes, the bus will depart between gates 13 and 15. But wouldn´t that be Gate 14? I ask. Now she´s confused. She asks someone else in a bus company uniform. He says the same thing. What the hell is wrong with this place?
Turns out the bus is 15 minutes late. We watch it pull in, a "Mexico City" sign in the front window. And seriously, it is somehow between gates 13 and 15. I don´t know. Don´t ask.
7 hours and three dubbed movies later, we arrive at the Mexico City Terminal Norte only to discover that all buses to Oaxaca depart from an entirely different terminal totally on the other side of the city which requires us to run an insane backpacker gauntlet involving ankle bending stairs, escalators, 3 different subway lines and a 15 minute jog through a maze of underground tunnels, all whilst laden down with our huge packs. But hey, the subway only costs three pesos each and we were not about to take a taxi.
Three hours in the new bus terminal, waiting for the last bus of the day at 11:55pm. We pay for a second class bus, saving 80 pesos each, which seems like a great deal, until we realize that "second class" is Spanish for "no bathroom on board." For future reference, I´ll gladly pay 80 pesos not to squirm and sweat in my seat for six hours...
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