A Little Bad News

I guess it had to happen sooner or later.

And I suppose I can't complain too much about my first piece of bad luck coming after having been on the road for nearly three months - I had a pretty good streak going there, really. So, in the relating of the following unfortunate story, I'll do my best to look on the bright side, but it's still pretty fresh, so bear with me.

I left the beautiful beaches of Mazunte a few days ago, on a Tuesday morning, after a lovely eight-day pause - my longest yet. I had soaked up a good deal of sun, made full use of the ocean - swimming daily - and met some interesting and friendly beach folks. I was ready for a change, however, I thought to myself as I packed up my little tent and made for the street.

I had planned to make my way out to San Cristobal de las Casas, a reportedly beautiful old city nestled in the mountains of Chiapas, but it seemed a bit far to travel in one day, so I broke the journey in two, stopping at the close of my first day in a little Oaxacan town by the name of Tehuantepec. It was a dingy little place, but I found a cheapish hostel and enjoyed the quiet and privacy of a room to myself after so many nights on the sand.

A good place to take stock, and assess things a little before moving on, I told myself. I laid out all my belongings - not much really - and put aside some of the rattier items to be considered for dismissal or repair. I know many of you will likely be laughing, but I take some pleasure in such things, and sat happily into that first evening, hand-sewing torn pants, or mending buttons here and there.

The following morning, as the noon sun rose high and the wind picked up some, I set about hand-washing my clothes on the little concrete roof-top washboard - I had gone to drop them off for cleaning earlier, but none of the lavanderias in town could have my things ready until Friday. Besides, I still had some leftover laundry soap that I'd been carting around since the Baja, and nothing better to do this fine day.

The other thing is that laudry service here can be quite expensive - sometimes as much as 6USD or so for a medium sized load. Despite having just spent a relatively cheap 8 days on the beach, I'd been thinking a bit about money-matters recently - I still have a lot of miles ahead of me - and so was happy to do my best to conserve wherever possible. Every little bit helps.

Anyway, Thursday morning I packed up and made for the bus station early, and finding that there were no direct buses to San Cristobal until later that afternoon, had a quick chat with the ticket lady and worked out a cheaper way round involving four shorter trips, the first of which I could still catch if I ran. Happy with this budgetary maneuver, I paid and dashed out the doors to catch my just-leaving bus.

So three bus-changes and many pee-breaks later, I step off my last bus around 4 in the afternoon, in beautiful San Cristobal. The bus station is lively, and the streets are full of people. I have no idea how the city is organized, but this is nothing new, and I head down toward the center of town.

Happily there are plenty of hotels and guesthouses varying from the luxurious to the lousy, and I pop my head into a few as I walk along to ask about prices and what not. I resolve to find a nice cozy cheap place and settle in for a few days of conservative living - no big sights, no big excursions, just mountain life in Mexico. Before long I find just the place - La Posada De Zapata - a neat little guesthouse named in honor of the famed revolutionary and decorated throughout with his image. It's set back from the road a bit with relatively cheap dormitory rates and a quaint public kitchen space.

A little tired from the day's travel, I head off to the grocery store and stock up for the coming days. It's nice to be buying groceries instead of always dining out, and I am excited to cook myself a decent supper. I return home, stow my food in the kitchen, and head to my room to settle a bit. The dormitory room is pleasant; modestly decorated, and large enough to accomodate the three single beds, each with a sturdy wooden chest at its foot which is to serve as a kind of locker.

I have purchased a lock, and have used it at times, but resent it a little - I dislike the feeling of locking up my goods in front of the people I am staying with. I understand due caution, of course, but this idea of thinking that I could be among theives, of maintaining even slight suspicion of those around me is not a mental posture I enjoy or want to cultivate.

At any rate, I have been told that there is one other fellow staying in this room, buy I have yet to meet him, so having stowed my few valuables, I listen to reason, lock them, and head out for a walk to catch the remainder of the day and look around a little. It is pleasant outside. Lovely old buildings, music, and plenty of people out and about in the square. Soon enough, however, I begin to get hungry, and return home to make supper.

I struggle with the little gas range for a while, and eventually realize that there must be no gas. I confirm this with the staff who promise to have it all set for the morning. Looks like I won't be eating pasta tonight - I decide instead to make up some avocado and cheese tortillas, and munch on a few potato chips. Some guests from down the hall - a group of young people in from nearby Tuxtla for the weekend - notice my cold supper, and offer me a can of the tuna they've been reduced to, and a glass of soda. We laugh a bit together about the lack of gas, and chat over our modest supper. They are partying however, so I retire to my room to read some.

My roommate is back. He is a Mexican man of maybe thirty years, clean-looking and polite. He has good English, so we chat a little about where I'm from, and my various travels. He makes me a peanut-butter sandwich, and pours me a glass of juice - his version of a stove-less supper - which I happily accept. I ask him where he's from, and what he knows about the area, and he offers a little information, as well as some ideas about things to see and do up in the Yucatan region. We talk a bit about the price of travel, but how this place is nice enough, considering, and I tell him about Couchsurfing. He has never heard of this, but finds it an interesting idea. He cracks a few jokes, and we laugh a little together. Nice fellow, I think to myself.

Eventually, I return to my reading, and he excuses himself to go to sleep. After reading for a time, I decide to do the same. I take off my clothes, pile them at the foot of the bed, shut the light, and crawl under the covers. Our young neighbors are still up and talking - they haven't even gone out yet - but eventually I manage to pass out.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I am woken up by the sound of them coming home after what must have been a good night out, but eventually this too dies down and I manage to fall asleep again.

I wake slowly in the morning to the sun through white curtains. My roommate is up and stirring quietly in his bed. I think for a moment about getting up, but then recall that I have absolutely nothing to do today, and can sleep in as long as I please. I hear my roommate quietly leave the room, and settle back to sleep.

Some time later I do decide to get up, and head out to grab a coffee from a shop around the corner, and an avocado for lunch. I return to my room, grab my book, and head to one of the few chairs outside to read in the morning sun. No sign of my roommate. Must have gone out for breakfast, I think to myself.

There's still no gas in the kitchen, but I'm assured by the staff that it's coming, and so decide to go for a little walk to kill some time before brunch. The city is bustling in the morning light, and I snap a few photos of historic buildings like a good little tourist before growing weary and deciding to sit for a cappucino. Delicious. When it comes time to pay, however, I realize that I haven't enough change - spent it on my avocado - and so have to dig for a bill. I pull out my wallet, and reaching in notice that about 3500 pesos or so are missing.

I am a bit confused. Now, I just went to the ATM the other day in Tehuantepec, and as I mentioned earlier, have been pinching pennies pretty hard lately, so I know this is not a mistake on my part. There are a few hundred pesos still in there, but all of the larger bills are gone. Nothing else is moved or tampered with. Suddenly, a kind of cold rage sweeps over me such as I have not felt in a long while. I don't like it one bit, and it's all I can do to calm down and think for a minute.

What this must mean, I tell myself, is that my friendly roommate must have waited until he was certain that I was asleep, and then in cover of night, rifled through my clothes (which I of course neglected to lock up), found my wallet in my pants pocket, removed nearly all of the money inside (what a prince), and then gone back to bed as if nothing had happened. Then in the morning, he rose slowly, and quietly left without making a fuss.

It was ballsy of him, to be sure - how did he know I wouldn't rise before him? Perhaps he waited for me to stir, and then slowly made his way out? At any rate, by the time I realized what had happened, many hours had passed, and I know that if it were me, I'd be miles away on the next bus out of town by now. 3500 pesos is not a whole lot of money - maybe 280USD - but down here that's more than enough to get on for a few weeks if you know how to spend it. I know that's how far I was hoping it would take me, anyway.

So, I do my best to swallow some of my anger, pay for my coffee with some of my remaining pesos, and make for the hostel to make some lunch, and try to chill out. I look a little harder at the room, and notice that my roommate is most certainly gone, and not coming back if he knows what's good for him. My first instinct is to pack up and leave too, get away from this place, but I've bought my groceries, and I figure it's a pleasant enough place besides. No sense both of us leaving.

So here I am.

All this took place only this morning, and although I've since made some tasty lunch - the gas is on, thankfully - I was still a little tense as I ate. It's hard to describe. I have only been stolen from a few times in my life, but each time it makes me sick to my stomach for a little while. I suppose it's a mixture of emotions and impulses.

Part of me feels a little like how I imagine boxers must feel before the big match - all psyched-up and ready to hurt someone - like you can't sit down, should be running, chasing, searching, punishing. Another part of me is more sad, and wishes that so-and-so were still here, so I could talk to him like a little child, and try to teach him that he's made a mistake, that such behavior is not conducive to the building of a strong character, that he'll regret it later in life, etc. Then all of a sudden I just want to whack him again. Fucker.

Your one selfish action, roommate, has thrown me into that very state of wary suspiciousness that I so abhor. Anyone who has been stolen from will know what I mean. Suddenly, people all around - even strangers passed on the street - are transformed from shiny, happy, good-natured people, into shady, shifty-eyed characters, each one looking over their shoulder at their neighbour, hands gripping their belongings. Damn you, roommate, for bringing me down into this Hobbesian world!

Anyway. I'm nearly over it now. People are starting to look like good people again, and I am wanting to hit them less and less. Can't let one bad apple spoil the whole bunch as they say. Writing about it has helped a lot too, and I thank whomever made it all the way through the present entry despite the conspicuous lack of photos of things exploding. We'll see if I can't find something to blow up in the days to come.

In other news, I have begun working on the mailing address thing again - Buenos Aires is too far away afterall, I think. My recent hope is that I'll be able to have mail sent to some Canadian government office or something, or that I may be able to contact some post office down the line directly, and have things sent there. Anyway, it's in the works, and I'll let you know when the powers that be get back to me.

Otherwise, things are moving along well. I am healthy and happy, reading lots, and looking forward to a few more days here before moving along deeper into Chiapas, and eventually up Yucatan way.

I hope everyone is well and in good spirits - talk to you soon!

Sitios Arqueologicos Y Fuegos Pirotecnicos

Well, I'll tell you, it's a hot day here in Mazunte, a quiet little puebla on the Pacific coast of Oaxaca state, and I don't feel much like writing - I'd much rather keep on with the gentle hammock-swinging and dozy reading that's been occupying pretty much all my time of late - but I have a few things I feel compelled to tell you about, and if they don't come out now they may never do, so here goes.

So I wound up spending three nights in Oaxaca city. The plan had been two, but my hosts were very lovely indeed, and kind enough to invite me to stay a third in order to attend a rather special event which I will tell about in a moment. The first day was easily burned away lolling about in the city's beautiful old Zocalo; after my late night arrival, I woke, breakfasted, and set about poking around all the huge ornate churches, listening to all kinds of street music and reclining with a book under cover of shade, munching on tamales and coffee - rare now is the tamale lady who passes me by un-patronized.

That second evening, my hosts and I discussed some of the to-sees and to-dos of Oaxaca city, during which was raised the posibility of paying a visit to some nearby Zapotec ruins. I realized that I had yet to visit any sizable ruins, and that I should probably not leave Mexico without so doing, and so made plans to go the following morning. Only a half-hour or so out of the city, Monte Alban, I learned, apart from being one of the earliest cities of Mesoamerica, was in fact the central hub (socially, politically, economically) of all things Zapotec for close to 1000 years! Most agree that it was founded some time around 500 BC, and was pretty much in full swing around 100 BC-200 AD, expanding and dominating throughout the Oaxacan highlands. Come 500-750 AD however, things had calmed down, and the place was essentially abandoned after that, apart for a few small-scale reoccupations, or the occasional re-use of various structures or tombs, etc.

Apart from all the historical acclaim, the place is also quite beautifully located, set upon a vast levelled plateau, some 6400 feet above sea-level, and about 1300 feet above the surrounding valley floor. The center of the site is a kind of rectangular courtyard, bordered on all sides by strings of pyramid-like structures, the two largest of which flank it on each end. Sheer steps almost twice as tall as they are deep make climbing these pyramid faces a little risky if you're not paying attention, but the view from the top is well worth it, nearly 360 degrees, gazing down into the main yard - in the center of which sits the astronomical observatory so central to the daily and ritual life of this star-gazing culture - and also out across the valley and onto the outskirts of Oaxaca city below.



Outside this main area there sit several other beautiful pyramid structures affording similarly beautiful views, as well as a number of smaller sets of ruins more on the edge of the site - mostly tombs, we learned. It was not dificult to kill a few hours wandering about the site, gawking, snapping photos and talking idly with the various traveler people who invariably find themselves in such places, but there's only so much you can write about it.

One detail in particular, however, does merit mention, I thought. Rather awesomely, among virtually all the pre-Colombian peoples of Mesoamerica, there was played for some 3000 years a ritually significant game, now referred to as the ball game. The exact rules are not known, of course, but based on the available information, it looks to have been something like volleyball, in which participants would strike a sizable rubber ball (weighing up to 4 kilograms!) usually only with their hips, but occasionally with forearms or elbows as well, with the objective of keeping it in play.

Some 1300 ballgame courts have been found througout mesoamerica, and although they vary considerably in size, they all feature the same long narrow alley, bordered by sloping walls for the ball to bounce off of. While the ballgame seems to have been widely played recreationally, major formal matches were also held, and there is plenty of evidence suggesting its frequent correlation with ritual, and even with human sacrifice. I was pretty stoked about all of this.

So anyway, upon returning to town and supping with some fellow travelers, I returned home, where I was to meet with one half of my hosts - Willem - to help organize a smallish surprise party for the other - Hilary. As it happens, Hilary was turning 10000 days old on this day (about 27 and a half years, incidentally), and so guacamole and crepes, and beer and friends, and a sizable piñata in her likeness were all arranged to celebrate. It was a lovely night with much laughter and conversation, and I was very pleased to be there, and to have met so many more fun and interesting people. I left the following morning (after tamales of course) quite content and quite ready for the beach.

My first stop was in a spot called Puerto Escondido, widely-known, apparently, for its good surf, and low-stress lifestyle. I was pleased to find that while it was undoubtedly touristy, it was still quiet enough to find a private corner of beach if you wanted. My first few nights there I kept to myself mostly, enjoying the weather, and spending slow days meandering around the beaches. Soon enough however, I fell in with a gaggle of Aussies staying at my hostel, and drank far too much beer playing all kinds of crazy card games. Folks would see how much fun we were having, and invite us out on the town, but we were content to stay in, and the party often came to us. There is a great late-night burger scene in Puerto Escondido, and we ate our fair share I can tell you.

So one night, about 7:30, as I'm coming home from a Valentine's day SKYPE with my mom in New Brunswick, I see my Aussies all geared up to head out somewhere. Oh yes, there's a little fiesta happening a little ways out of town, and aren't you coming? Just what that means I have no idea - I figure it's a bar or something - but I've got nothing important planned, so I decide to go for it. They all leave in a cab, and I make my way out there a little while later with some other hostel people in a cab of our own. I ask around about what this place is all about but no one can tell me anything, but it takes us some fifteen or twenty minutes to drive out there, on a silent vacant road, under the light of the Mexican stars, and I begin to realize I am likely not going to a bar, anyway.

I am quite hugry at this point, and so am pleased when we drive into what appears to me to be a sizable night-market - they always have good food. We are let off at the mouth of a great long stip of little puestos selling everything from baby-shoes and fruity-sweets to hand-made leather machete-holsters, and begin to make our way into the fray. It soon becomes evident that far more than just a market, we have arrived at a full-on Mexican carnival, complete with games and spinning, twisting rides of all sizes, and shiny brown youth running around shoulder to shoulder beneath the blazing neon lights. There are doughnuts and milkshakes and pizza and tacos everywhere, and the music is too loud and babies are screaming and I don't know where to begin.

Now, everyone's been to a carnival, they're all kind of nuts, right, so I don't have to spend ten paragraphs describing it, but it ought to be noted that in Mexico, things are just a little - how can I put it - looser. There is no ticket booth, indeed there are no tickets anywhere, if you want to take part in some game or ride you just step up and pay cash money, or rather, you force your way to the front and pay cash money - there are no lines either. When the gates open, folks of all ages simply dash up the stairs to their favorite rotating contraption and have a seat. Indeed, many rides have no gates at all, but swing or twist quite openly, and it is up to the responsible carnival-goer to not walk too close lest he get kicked in the pants by a circling elephant, as one of my travel mates learned the hard way.

Having indulged myself in a good many tacos, I was not tempted to hop on any of these rides, but took some pleasure in watching my companions flail about on one particularly unforgiving ride. This torture machine would likely run for a minute or two anywhere else in the world, but I watched it spin for what must have been six or eight, and thanked my better judgment for sitting out. This had all been good fun for me, and I was glad to have come and enjoyed the welcome break in my otherwise slow beachlife very much, but the highlight of the whole evening was still to come.

Making my way around a few bends and kind of following the crowd, I eventually came to a large-ish open square within and around which were seated or milling about some many hundreds of people. At one end of the square was a small stage upon which some traditional folklore type song and dance were being performed, which the crowd seemed to be enjoying very much. Now, the square would normally have been wide open to the street along one side, but on this occasion was hemmed in by some very unusual structures the likes of which I had never seen before.

They looked like great communication towers, some three or four stories tall, all constructed of thin wood beams and strips crossing all over in supporting Xs, or at least they would have looked so, were it not for all the other ornate circular crisscross objects fastened to their surface, or dangling from crossbeams. Some of these structures looked like great flowers or palm trees or birds, and the whole lot were covered in what looked to me like little white plastic birthday candles that ran across every line of the things, usually spaced an inch or two apart.

Well, they were very elaborate and beautiful, I thought, but it was quite dark, and I couldn't quite figure out what to make of them. Besides, people didn't seem to be paying them much attention, anyway, so I took a seat among the crowd and enjoyed the show - I had heard there were going to be fireworks. Now again, everyone has been to a fireworks show, but I'll tell you a Mexican fireworks show is another thing altogether, or at least this Mexican fireworks show was, as I will do my best to describe here.

Once the dance performance had finished, a male voice came over the loudspeaker and shouted some indistinguishable but deafening words, at which point the band began once more, although with a much jauntier tune, and a figure emerged in the center of the square wearing atop his head a kind of piñata-like effigy of a bull wrapped in light scaffolding and adorned with all manner of those little birthday-candle looking things, like the big towers behind him had. He began to dance about, and the square began to fill with people, also dancing, young men mostly, I noticed.

Suddenly, someone came up behind the dancing bull and struck a match, and the next thing you knew, that sucker was sending out a splay of sparks that must have been twelve feet long. The crowd cheered, and as the sparks grew the structure all about the bull effigy began to twirl and pop and crackle, and the young men in the center square began to taunt the bull. He responded to this by chasing them about a little when they got too close, shooting sparks after them as he went. I began to get the idea - like the running of the bulls, only a little safer.

It wasn't long however, before one of the boys grew bold enough to make a grab at the crazy exploding bull, and yanked it apart, taking one flaming piece, and running after his mates, while others fought violently over the remaining pieces, tossing aside those that had finished exploding, and running about with those that did. It was a bit like a riot, really, and for a moment I thought that something had gone wrong, but as more flaming-sparking-firework-bull-effigies emerged, sometimes two by two, and each was torn apart and fought over by raucous young men, and paraded about the square, I realised that this was just how it went.

It was nearly pitch black, and the fireworks put out a great deal of smoke, which, when lit up by the sparks made for quite a scene. More than once the action came a little too close for comfort, as some drunken fellow would come sprinting toward our end of the square, flailing some crazy sparkling piece of bull effigy above his head like mad, and it would come apart, sending flaming bits into the crowd which often had to be kicked away or stamped out before they exploded in our faces. One girl I was with had a sizable hole burned in the bum of her dress when she fell back and accidentally sat on one such piece of debris. Like I say, these things tend to be a little looser.

Anyway, this went on for quite some time, and it was only about half-way through that I realised that if the little birthday-candles on the bulls looked an awful lot like the ones on those huge ornate towers... What are they going to do just blow them up right in the middle of the square? Well sure enough, after the bull-fighting had ceased - as it happened the police had to be called in, and a few of the more problematic folks were carted away, so it actually was kind of like a riot - that's just what they did.



Folks were shooed away from the base of the towers, and someone walked up underneath them and lit them up, and they full-on exploded, in about ten distinct phases, over the course of about a half-hour. The great big circular bits rotated burning now green now white, and the parts built into things like birds and trees blew-up and crackled and spun around. Sometimes fireworks would explode into words, other times they would detach from the towers, and spin off into the sky to blow up. I couldn't belive it. I sat there with my mouth wide open laughing through the whole thing, that is, until it began to fill up with smithereens, and I had to close it. There were also conventional fireworks going off at times, bursting loudly and filling the sky above with pink and gold light, and trickling down onto the crowd.

It was well past midnight by the time they were finished, and I got home much later, a little tired, but well-fed and pleased overall with how the night had turned out.

I left Puerto Escondido the following day, yesterday, and made the short trip down the coast to tiny Mazunte. It's still touristy, to be sure, and although I'm crashing in my tent, I'm hardly roughing it, but it's a bit quieter anyway, and I will likely spend another night or two here before shuffling further along the coast toward Chiapas.

Talk to you soon!

Mailing Address In Argentina

I am very pleased to announce that I have managed to find an address at which I will be able to receive mail in the coming months. Thanks to the lovely Carolin Schmee and her generous family, those of you who have been asking where I can be reached may now send mail to:

Mr. Joseph Frigault
c/o Familia Schmee
Juncal 2449 - 8a
1425, Capital Federal
Buenos Aires
Argentina

As I am still quite a huge ways way from Argentina, it will likely be some time until I am able to pick up said mail, but this is the best I could manage! Present plans should have me there some time in the summer, I believe, (only a few months before I return to Canada) but better late than never, no? I understand, however, if some of you would rather wait until I return.

At any rate, if you do plan to use this address, kindly let me know, so that I'll have a heads-up on what to expect when I get there, and will know if something is missing etc.

Cheers from sunny Oaxaca! Miss you all!

Battlecries & Butterflies

Sometimes you hear people say things like: "Oh, I'm definitely a city person, I can't stand the country - nothing ever happens" or "You can have your concrete jungle, your cars and your smog, I'll take my scenic countryside." But I can never figure out which side of the fence I'm on, it seems. To be sure, I take great pleasure in the silence and solitude of the mountains and valleys, and often seek them out, but there's also something to be said for the steady industrial pulse and thrum of the big city, and I am almost always pleased to return there, even if simply to wander amidst the rush and flurry.

I arrived in Mexico city a week ago today, well after dark, in the rain of a Tuesday evening with no more than the name of a hostel and the neighbourhood in which I might find it. Thankfully, the monstrous Terminal del Norte opens out directly onto the metro line, and so after wobbling around mouth-agape for a time, I managed to find my place among the throbbing mass of people headed down the stairs thereto. I have always taken some private personal joy in subway systems; the great circulatory tracts of cities, pumping the lifeblood-populace from place to place, stopping here, re-directing there, all with incredible efficiency. Throughout the course of my few days in town, I've not waited longer than one minute for a train.

At this point, however, I had not even a rough idea as to the layout of the city - I was just gunning for a bed, really. So I asked directions, and found that I had only a single connection to make in order to get to Coyoacan, my desired part of town.

Like most metro systems, apart from the swarms of civilians making their way about town, Mexico city's trains are also home and office to a colourful cast of characters trying to earn their living. They include, but are surely not limited to, musicians, artists and performers of various kinds, whether young handsome guitar duos, blind banjo virtuosos, or shambling toothless harmonica players. There are also the numerous vendors, pedlers and salespeople attempting to disburden themselves of all manner of articles, from hand-pump rechargeable flashlights, to burned CDs (some with music, or films, and others with math-based study-guides for students, etc.) and collections of history books on Mexican presidents. Never a dull moment in transit, to be sure.

Anyway, once I arrived in Coyoacan, a quieter, more prosperous borough of town, I found a computer and searched for my hostel, finding to my great pleasure, that it was only a few blocks away. Stopping for some delicious rainy road-side tacos, I confirmed these directions, and set out. I found the place without trouble and was soon to bed.

So what do you do in Mexico city? My first day in town I headed for the heart of it - the Centro Historico, a UNESCO designated World Heritage Site, incidentally - and wandered about among the rain-battered residents hustling in all directions with collars up-turned, and briefcases in tow. It was a strange way to see the place, all grey and cloudy, taxis splashing through the old cobblestone streets. I made the rounds and lunched among busy people, gulping coffee and delicious tamales, and scoped out a few other sleeping options closer to the downtown. Prices were good, but they all seemed kind of glossy, and full of talky-talk party people, and I kind of liked the commute from Coyacan besides, and so decided to stay put.

I could say more, I suppose, about the various sights about town, and my pedestrian adventures, but that doesn't make for the most interesting reading, so I'll skip ahead some. I believe it was a Friday evening when I made my way down to the famed Arena Mexico, a.k.a. "The Cathedral of Lucha Libre."


I had purchased my ticket the day before, so as to get decent seats - I figured that if I was going to sit through three hours of professional wrestling, I was at least going to be close enough to see some sweat. I arrived a little early, and enjoyed watching the excitement mount as more and more folks arrived. And not just young folks either, I was pleased to find all manner of people lining up, singles of all ages, elderly people, even whole families, and many couples on dates (how romantic, no?). The streets were lined with little puestos selling luchador masks, T-shirts, magazines, and vendors wound their way through the crowd both inside and out of the place, selling snacks and drinks of all kinds. Tortas! Pizza! Cerveza! It was nuts.


In true Mexican fashion the speakers were maxed-out, and heart-pumping music echoed throughout the arena timed in unison with seizure-inducing lights. Around 8:30 or 9 the place was packed, and the show was ready to begin. After a little preamble from the young MC, the action begun. It was the whole schtick, I can tell you, just like on TV. Smoke, lights, and theme music filled the air, as combattant after combattant slowly made their way down too many stairs, through a gaggle of bikini-clad girls, slapping hands with eager fans, and eventually into the centre ring, where they fished for applause and otherwise wound up the crowd.

There were six bouts in all, and to my surprise, they were quite long, often lasting multiple rounds. There was two-on-two and three-on-three, and was even a round of female luchadores, (luchadoras?) great burly women of various ethnicities, slapping, pulling hair, and tossing each other about. Huge screens magnified the action, and featured slow-motion instant replays of all the juicier bits. It was fun to watch the crowd get more into things as the night went on, their cries and taunts gaining intensity: Pu-TA! Pu-TA! Chinga su madre!

Often one frenzied combattant or another would leap, or be thrown from the ring, and land - not softly, I can tell you, these were big men - in the laps of the first few rows of spectators. The latter were overjoyed about this, young and old alike, despite spilled drinks and squashed tacos - not to mention personal injury - and relished the chance to touch their wounded heroes, and encourage them to get back in the action. Undoubtedly they knew full well that this was coming, and had shelled out the extra pesos accordingly.

Eventually, it was time for the final bout, the much-talked-about match between two well-known and well-loved luchadores: Mystico VS Volador. There had been a fair amount of treatrics and showmanship in the bouts preceding, but these two chaps went at it for what must have been 40 minutes, and put on a veritable vaudeville act the whole time.

Mystico the obvious bad-guy repeatedly attempted to de-mask his competitor, and to divert the referees gaze while he undertook some dastardly deed, while Volador the fan-favorite weathered all this treachery with stoic endurance, and after a few near-pins, eventually came from behind for the win with a fantistic feat of gymnastic prowess in which he lept and flew all about his helpless opponent grabbing him now with his arms, now with his legs, and eventually flinging him to the ground by his head in a terrible tornado twist maneuver. It was almost as impressive as it was hilarious, and I must admit that despite my modest expectations, I actually had a great time! Highly recommended.

A day or so later, as I was getting ready to depart the city, I was leafing through a borrowed lonely planet looking for last minute things to do, when I noticed a little blurb about the annual Monarch migration. I had heard a bit about this while travelling in Michoacan state a few weeks prior, but my route had taken me northward before I made it into Monarch territory.

The story goes something like this: the Monarch is the only butterfly that migrates like birds do, heading southward in August, and northward again in the springtime. At any rate, every year the entire North American monarch population east of the Rocky Mountains makes the epic journey down to the same southern valleys of Mexico where they hang out and mate in a particular type of tree known as the Oyamel. Amazingly, no one individual butterfly ever makes the full round trip, since it actually takes the migration several generations to get that far, a fact which has long confounded biologists - how do they stay on course?

I was pleased to read that not only was the sanctuary only a few hours travel away, but that it was actually prime time to visit, and so, quite suddenly, I decided to pack up my things and hit the road - I would have to hurry if I wanted to find a suitable campground by nightfall. Two subways, two busses, and one taxi ride later, I found myself standing before some charming little government grounds as the sun slowly set over the hills.

I quickly set up my little Snoopy tent, stowed my belongings, and made my way over to a little nearby tienda where I supped on some delicious blue-corn quesadillas and coffee, and shared a few laughs with some local folks. The place was very safe, I was assured by one fellow who seemed to know what he was talking about, and I thanked him as I returned to my tent, only to find that some of my food had just been snatched by a few of the scruffy little dogs who hung around the place. I caught one of them in the act though, and sent him on his way. So, I was minus one avacado, and a few tortillas, but I still had plenty of grub for tomorrow's trek.

After a cold night of much rolling about, I was pleased to be woken up by the warmth of the sun, and having procured a few more of those tasty quesadillas, I made arrangements to leave my pack for the day while I took to the mountains. It took some doing to get away from there without a guide, I can tell you, and I actually felt a little badly about it afterward - they're only trying to make a living afterall - but despite their repeated warnings, I was quite confident I would be just fine on my own. It was only a short trip, and sure enough, there was ample signage the whole way, and hardly any danger of getting lost so long as you were paying even a little attention to where you were going.

About an hour or so in, I began to see them - little flickers or orange and black, lilting across my path, or resting on nearby branches. Less fond of the cool morning shade, the butterflies seemed to congregate in patches of sun, only by the dozen or so at first, but soon enough they were filling the air, and their tattered remains could be seen strewn about the trails like so many dead leaves. By the time I got to the sanctuary proper, I was already quite satisfied with my sightings so far - I had never seen so many butterflies in one place before.

Little did I know what lay ahead.


I wound down the final length of the trail, dutifully keeping silent and watching my step, as instructed by the hand-written signs, and before long was standing alongside a monstrous ravine full of rather droopy looking trees which seemed to be covered with some kind of thick foamy orange coating. It took me a moment to realize that these huge pine trees were in fact drooping from the weight of the millions of Monarch butterflies covering their every surface.

Adjusting to this fact, I began to see them everywhere, not just on the trees across the ravine, but all around, on the trees above and behind me as well, albeit not in so many numbers. Walking further along the trail, their presence continued to grow, until, at the trail's end, there was literally no place you could look and not see thousands of them. I did my best to capture the experience of the place in photographs, but as with so many of nature's wonders, much of the motion and magic of the whole scene eluded me. It had still been quite early in the day when I had first arrived, and the dozy mariposas had not yet been fully stirred by the heat of the sun, but I managed to find myself a cozy spot to sit, and over the course of the next hour or so, that place came alive.

Soon, you could not sit five minutes without being co-opted as a landing-strip for sun-bathing Monarchs. I lay back in the sun, and felt the air flit across my face at the pass of their velvet wings. Once, as I stood to take a photo, an over-amorous pair fell from above, and clung to me, still rapt in the throes of mating. What could I do? I patiently waited for them to finish, and snapped a few voyeuristic photos. Before long the air was a mess of orange, and the trees and paths were crawling, such that you could hardly walk for fear of stepping on the things.


More people had arrived too, for the afternoon rush, and so I decided to head back - I still had to make it to Mexico city that evening afterall. A pleasant walk down the mountain, and a lucky ride down into town with some other travelers saw me through to the bus depot, where I hopped on the next line out of town. I was home and in bed before 10.

Wasting no time, I left for Oaxaca the following day - yesterday - and arrived too late to do much other than meet with my generous couchsurfing hosts, and hit the sheets. Today, however, I am enjoying a leisurely afternoon about town; the weather is lovely and I have little to do but take my fill of wandering, and sit to write you all.

I will likely stay here another night or two before heading south to the beaches of this beautiful state about which I have heard so much. So hasta luego for now!

Oh, by the way, some of you may have heard about a sizable earthquake that struck this region at some point yesterday. While it was strong, and felt throughout the city - indeed my hosts told me they felt a sizable shake of their couch a few hours before my arrival! - there have been, to my knowledge, no reports of serious injury so far. I, incidentally, was on the bus into town at the time, and felt nothing out of the ordinary. Bye bye!

Reflections, Dissections, Carcasses & Circuses

Hard to believe, but it's already been two months on the road now. If present plans hold, this period will mark roughly one fifth of my trip! Sensitive as I am to such temporal increments, I have recently been given to reflection on the pace and character of my travels to date, and to the contemplation and dissection of my remaining days. Portions of the latter, for whomever is interested, can be found immediately below, but the rest of you are invited to skip ahead to the juicier stuff.

Reflections: Over the course of the past eight weeks or so, I have visited a number of strikingly beautiful and diverse cities varying in size and temperament. I have set booted foot in rain, snow, sand, and sleet, and marched across mud, marble, asphalt, cobblestones and pools of human excrement. I have swum in warm seas, crisp oceans, and wandered through air both freezing and arid. I have been healthy, have run and jumped, and have laid myself down to sleep wrapped in no more than my aches and pains. I have travelled alone, by two, and by three; have revelled in my freedom, and longed for the company of my friends and family.

I have shouted in anger, cursed my stupidity, smiled and laughed with strangers, wound myself tight and drunk myself loose again. Despite, or perhaps because of all this, I am inclined to think that I have been making satisfying use of my time so far, and am very excited for the coming months. I also wanted to write a little thank you to everyone who has actually been reading all this dross - it very encouraging to know that I have this resource at my fingertips whenever I need to feel listened to. Ok, so what next?

Dissections: I have decided, based on my present pace that I will likely need the month of February to make my way through the remainder of Mexico. (Exactly how that month will be doled out however remains to be seen, but that's what seems to be working: day-to-day openness set within a gently posited framework.) At that point, I should be ready to move into Central America. I have been thinking I would like to visit each of the countries therein, spending roughly a week on each. This may not sound like much, but timing it thus would have me approaching the doorway to South America at roughly the half-way point of my trip. This of course is not at all how I imagined things, but sits quite well with me at the moment, and represents what I am now calling "the plan".

So, South America is big, and in light of this bigness, my ambitious ideas of visiting every country therein have withered somewhat of late, making way for slightly more realistic ones. The biggest question on my mind recently was, when I enter South America, which way do I go? Shall I head South along the Western side, and skip out on northern Colombia, Venezuela and gigantic Brazil for the moment? Or head Northeast through those three countries, aimed at the Eastern coast of Brazil, and directly away from Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia? It looked like there was no way to avoid at least some back-tracking, and for a while I thought I might have to give in to considering flights around the continent.

However, I eventually devised a very rough, and very tortuous path zigging and zagging across the land, that I think would allow me to hit many of the spots I am interested in visiting, while minimizing the back-track factor. It's obviously still too early to write it down here, but I look forward to sharing it with you in the months to come, if I actually pull it off. Perhaps one of the biggest things about this new itinerary, is that it would have me finish my trip at the bottom of the continent, at which point I would likely have to fly back to Canada from one of the larger cities down there... assuming I have any money left at that point.

Anyway, enough of that talk for now. Thanks to those of you who had time to slog though it with me. Below are two stories from my recent travels.

Carcasses: After a week or so of touring around the beautiful state of Michoacan, I decided to zag North (gasp!) up to the neighboring state of Guanajuato, stopping first in the capital city of the same name - which, incidentally, comes from a phrase in the local indigenous language, meaning "Hill of Frogs", although I didn't see any about. I had heard many lovely stories of this place, and was not unimpressed by its history and beauty. Set in the base of a sizable valley, the smaller of Guanajuato's colourfully painted concrete structures clung to the surrounding ridges, while the center of the valley bloomed with all manner of larger buildings - churches, markets, museums, government offices, etc. many of which are well-known throughout the country - all exhibiting surprisingly ornate features. I observed this fact on my first day in the city - I stayed for four - when I managed to make my way up to the highest point I could find on the horizon, and sit for some time before a view spread out for miles before me - easily one of the best I have had so far, and I have had a few.

But as good as it was, it could not reveal all that the city had to offer. I had from that vantage point, for one thing, absolutely no appreciation for the vast network of tunnels that wound about beneath the city. Full of bus, taxi, and other local traffic, these roughhewn brick tunnels are also outfitted with wee little sidewalks for those willing to wander their depths. They are particularly beautiful in the evening, when traffic dies down a bit and their modest lights cast a yellow-orange glow, making you swear you were in a castle dungeon.

But if it's spooky you're after, the real place to go is Guanajuato's famed Museo de Momias, or Mummy Museum. A couple hundred years ago, most of the city's dead were stored in a sizable set of catacombs on the outskirts of town. Some time around the late 1800s, however, the city decided it ought to be charging for this service, and instituted a burial tax, and when many poor families were unable to pay this fee, their relatives were dug up to make room for the richer dead. To the surprise of all, roughly 1 in 100 of the bodies buried there had, by some unknown means, undergone a process of natural mummification, among them some of the best preserved human bodies in existence. They were immediately placed on display in a specially built museum where, for a small fee, they could be observed, and have laid there ever since, peasants mostly, contributing even in death, to the city's revenue.

Having never seen a real live mummy, I paid this museum a visit one sunny day, and spent some two hours or so wandering among the various specimens, camera in hand, without so much as blinking. The museum featured men and women of various ages, often offering brief accounts of their lives and how they passed on. Some were old and had simply died of natural causes, others were not so lucky. There were drowned mummies, stabbed mummies, mummies of people who had been buried alive, their faces drawn taut into horrific eternal screams, their fingers and toes twisted into brittle curlicues. Some were displayed in their burial clothes, frilly dresses, and old leather shoes tattered with age, others naked, revealing shrivelled genitals and mottled skin stretched like old canvas across an easel of bones.

Perhaps the most astounding however, were the "Little Angels" or infant mummies. To my surprise, I found that the museum had a sizable collection of them, to which they dedicated an entire section to the exhibit. I cannot describe what I felt as I gazed upon their tiny little fingers, skin thinner than that of an onion, and fragile as burned paper, their little feet, often still wrapped in booties, as they peeked out at me with hollow eyes from underneath delicate bedclothes. Some wore little hats, other tiny heads were bare but for a few wisps of ancient infant hair. Never before have I experienced such shocking dissonance as that created by the inescapable comingling of birth and death exhibited by these mummified babies. So tiny, so brand-new, but without any of the moisture and plumpness we expect from tiny, brand-new people. On the contrary, their bodies were old and broken like so many burned-out cinders.








The prize of the museum however, is what they claim to be the smallest mummy in the world, a fetus, in fact, removed, if you can believe it, from the mummified body of its mother, who died while with child. The latter stands leaning on a post, the lengthy scar fom her posthumous cesarean section stiched up with some rough yellow thread in full view on the left, her face locked in a fierce maternal scream. Her baby sits beside her on a pedestal, his underdeveloped legs coiled beneath him, gazing out at his adoring public. He is perhaps 6 or 8 inches tall, no more than a head really, perched upon a tiny s-shaped spine. If you look closely at the last of these photos, you will see my silhouette reflected in the glass.






Circuses: After having explored the beautiful city of Guanajuato to my satisfaction, I decided to pay a visit to the nearby and infamous San Miguel de Allende, the same city that had eluded Eden and I some weeks earlier in Michoacan. I had been building myself a couchsurfing profile for some time, and figured this was a fine time to try it out, and so I emailed ahead of myself to see if anyone in San Miguel would have me. To my great pleasure, I was taken in by a lovely young woman from Canada, who had been living and working in San Miguel for some time. Jaz and the rest of her housemates welcomed me warmly into their home, and I was not surprised when what I had planned to be a two night stay stretched into five.

It all began on day one, when, after depositing my backpack and sharing a rooftop glass of wine, I was offered a pair of tights, and invited to the evening's circus training. As it happens, some months ago, Jaz had joined a local circus troupe with whom she had been training ever since - they were, she assured me, quite accustomed to her habit of bringing along couchsurfers. Well, I was not about to turn such an opportunity down, although I did pass on the tights, and before I knew it I was doing warm-up stretch-dance with a bunch of circus folk in the back yard of their head trainer, the trapeze rigging dangling above us. The opportunity did come for me to try my hand at some of the equipment, which I did, but I was more content to sit and watch these incredible athletes swing and twist and tangle themselves up and down for the few hours we were there.

As it happened, that day was the group's final rehearsal in that space, and so I also got the chance to help them dismantle and stow all their rigging which was to be moved the following day. They had been practicing at this location for some nine years I was told, and had made and assembled the whole lot by themselves, so it was understandably an emotional time for them, and many laughs were had as we broke it all down. It was quite a priviledge, I thought, to be offered this unique chance to observe the kind of prep work that goes into even a small circus show - their troupe consists of only seven people or so - and I left with a new sense of appreciation for the athleticism, creativity and patience of folks in this field.

While this evening concluded my involvement in all things circus, my remaining days in San Miguel were no less exciting. Friday and Saturday nights were both lively, to say the least, the former involving a thorough round of bar-hopping, live music and dancing, and the latter a sizable party at the home of my generous hosts. Everyone in our house had friends in town that weekend, and it was a pleasure meeting so many folks from all over, and sharing the wonderful space with them. Unlike some other portions of my trip so far, my time in San Miguel was far less about seeing the city, and far more about interacting with all the incredible people who had taken me into their arms, despite only knowing me a short time. I don't think I shall ever forget that place, and look forward to the future crossing of paths with many that I met there.

It was therefore with some sadness that I left San Miguel yesterday afternoon, in the rain, on a bus to Mexico city, where I am presently, having arrived late last night. The rain has persited and continues even now, punishing me it seems, for leaving in the midst of such good times, and among such good people. I think, however, that I have made the right decision, and will likely remain here for a few days more at least, exploring the bustling streets, and catching up with myself a bit.

That ought to do for now, I hope. Talk to you all soon with more news and photos! (Posting photos while on the road can be a hassle sometimes, but I have recently added a few to prior posts if you care to take a look.)