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!