Mexico City: Where your sanity is for sale, just like everything else

Chapter 3: Walking with cars, witchcraft and dancing in the metro station


Another thing that makes Mexico City very interesting are its typical bustling markets. They are found everywhere, in every city and village, but here they reach a higher level in size, merchandise and multitude. The most common known example is Tepito, a tianguis or open-air market near the center of city that sells literally everything, either counterfeit goods or robbed originals. The neighbourhood is sprawled with stands from the moment you step out of the subway station. Everywhere where the eye can see there's motion, where the ear can hear there's noise, where the nose can smell there's odour. An enormous amount of people are concentrated in the small streets where vendors try to fit their ramshackle stands next to others and shoppers walk next to cabs, motorcyclists and buses who in their turn squeeze through the mass, with miraculously little casualties. Tepito runs almost independently their own community with small-time organizations electing their own leaders. More than a neighbourhood in the great city of Mexico, it has the likes of a communal society found in remote, indigenous villages.

The market is well described by the following saying: "En Tepito todo se vende, menos la dignidad." (In Tepito everything is for sale, except dignity). Most of the things for sale are likely to be of very poor quality. For instance, you can buy pirate CDs for as cheap as 2.5 pesos (0.15 euros), Armani t-shirts for 30 pesos (1.85) and a pair of Levi trousers for 300 pesos (18.50 euros). Obviously, the shopper can't go out without having a little snack here and there. A delicacy found in this market neighbourhood are steamed chicken legs and mollejas (the chicken's stomach). Usually you'll find a guy pushing a cart around with two giant plastic bags, each one filled with both chicken parts. If that's too exotic, you can always buy three hotdogs for 15 pesos (not 1 euro). But don't ask where the meat has to come from to cost that little. Further there are basket tacos that have the reputation of sending you straight to the hospital beds, sincronizadas (ham and cheese flour wraps) and grilled hamburgers. Eating here has a strong negative reputation that, according to the bad tongues, make you either vomit or shit straight fluid. As for me, I didn't encounter any of that. Although I have to admit I've been training my poor stomach for a while now.

A similar but more rough market neighbourhood is La Merced. Just as with Tepito, once you step out of the metro station you're completely disorientated for stands of various merchandise install themselves starting from the metro entrance/exit all the way till the eye can see. In order to orientate one has to find the main avenue crossing through La Merced neighbourhood which is found by litteraly walking towards daylight at the end of the collection of stands. However, once you're standing at that avenue you're further quizzed because the stands take up the whole sidewalk so that people are forced to walk on the street next to racing cars and buses. That's the case on both sides. It's an image on repeat. An interesting aspect found in this neighbourhood and not in Tepito is its large population of pleasure ladies. They parade in line next to the stands waiting for costumers. And honestly, they look horrible. Your appetite for sex would vanish instantly. I'd say they lack a bit of style... and a diet. Because many of them have flubbery flesh surpluses. Those interested in young green leafs can find an extended gamma of under-aged prostitutes who are not easily seen in public, but are arranged to you by specialized pimps. Since La Merced is a tolerance zone for sex business, rarely police shows up.
This part of town hosts a number of different markets such as the Flower Market, an enourmous traditional food market and Mercado Sonora. The last one deserves a closer look. It is in vox populi known as the market of witchcraft. As the word says, the market sells everything you need to heal mental illnesses, skin ailments, a crushed heart, diabetes, bone infections, etc. in the form balms, herbal medicine, incense, talismans and teas. Some of the products reach the level of absurd such as incense for diabetes and depression, and dead colibris on a leash for prosperity. Not only to cure illnesses, but also all sorts of objects are sold for practicing santeria and other syncretic religious practices. A venerated saint who is very popular here and also in Tepito is La Santa Muerte (The Holy Death). This figure is the product of syncretism between Mesoamerican and Catholic beliefs and represents a deep affection of Mexicans for the afterlife. In Mexico there's always been a more intense and complicated relationship with the defunct as proved in Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrated on November 2nd. However, La Santa Muerte goes beyond its representation of death and serves as common saint who is venerated with the intention of requesting prosperity, safety, health and even justified harm to others. She is most popular in lower working classes and criminals.
Beside alternative medicine there's also a large section of exotic and endangered animals. For instance, you'll find a flock of peacocks crammed together into a cage, large turtles that are supposed to be swimming in the sea soaking in a small rectangular bathtub and stirred up cocks destined for battle. Ultimately, you can even find interesting concious-alternating products such as salvia and peyote.

After visiting those two frenzy, crowded market neighbourhoods it was time to descend into the subway station. The metro never ceases to amaze me. While changing from one line to another I first heard a band playing a variety of Latin American genres and later another one playing fast-speed ska/punk/rock. The bandmembers of the first one seemed all to be closing their eyes, but it was not until after I looked closely that the entire band was blind and/or visually impaired. And they played smooth. There was at least one person dancing from the entire audience. The ska band really amazed me with the huge audience they attracted. So many people were listening to the feel-good uptempo rhythms of the band that they litteraly obstructed an essential passage for commuters. Once a dozen of men started a moshpit (!!!) it got worse, and the whole subway station filled up with people trying to get a glimpse of the scene and others pushing their way through towards their connecting lines. It's all in a day's work. You're never bored in La Gran Ciudad...

San Francisco: from three days to three weeks

In that little town outside the capital I eventually ended up staying three weeks, a lot more than I had planned. Besides learning how to bake cookies and pizzas I broadend my array of handwork with knotting belts and preparing tamales (A mexican delicacy of cornmeal dough filled with various things like meat wrapped up in corn husks). I also further specialized in Mexican humor, to that extent that everyone of the family was saying I had been forged a monster. Maybe, maybe. One thing is certain, I understand when anyone is trying to pull my leg with sexually charged jokes and if fast enough I can counter-attack. The difference with my preference for dry, direct humor is quite big, though. Mexicans don't seem to understand or appreciate when I launch an in-your-face comment. Most of them say it's not fun. Cultural differences, I guess... Another difference I noticed was the cultural gap between them and me. During those three weeks I observed how Alfredo, the only cultural aware of the clan, in vain attempted to convince the others of at least learning a few words in English, appreciate their own historic heritage or read the newspaper. It was poignant to see how the others stubbornly rejected his failed sermons. For instance, once, in Victor's workshop we were all working on an order when Alfredo walks in and starts talking about traveling, or at least exploring own country. That ended up in a discussion about spending your money only weekly drinking sessions or saving it for greater purposes like traveling which was ultimately ended by Tisho who told Alfredo: "You continue dreaming and let the rest live." With that strong message the defeated one walked out with yet another disappointment. I never took the opportunity to tell him, but if certain people are not interested in leaving their safe haven to explore other lands or to maintain a minimum level of culture that's their decision and most of all they won't be tempted to change their way of thought. Alfredo tried (and probably still does) to impose his ideas onto the rest, with poor results. If some of his family members are satisfied underneath the ceiling of their neighbourhood, close to everything familiar, that's their decision. Poor guy. It is said that wisdom comes with the years, but not in his case. As for me, I felt the same frustration as he about the same matter, but I tried to accept their way of life and put aside mine. Surprisingly, that wasn't too hard and it created some very nice moments. However, now and then I couldn't withhold a criticizing remark. An example: On a Sunday Alfredo and I visited the ruins of Teotihuacán, an impressive archeological site that dates back more than a thousand years. Although I had been there two times before, it never ceases to amaze me. When we returned Tisho asked me what I had done that day and when I informed him his reaction was: "What do wanna go there for? It's just a pile of stones. They won't leave. It'll always be there." Completely outraged and filled with incomprehension, I raked him over the coals, unable to hold myself in. I had endured a lot, but his rejection for his own ancient historical heritage lured out the loud, angry boy in me. I don't repent it, but I tried to keep those reactions to a minimum. Adaption is a strong virtue...

Meanwhile the days flew by and after two weeks I started thinking it was time to move on. When I mentioned that during one of our meriendas (late evening snack), I was met with concerned eyes and confusion. "Why do you wanna leave?", they asked me. "Aren't you at ease here?". I tried to explain my need to move on, but I was shut up after they said: "You'll stay here until Saturday for the Posada and leave the next day, what do you think?". Much debate was out of the order. They pretty much decided the period of my staying instead of me. In fact, that's when I realized I had started to become part of the family. I had felt it in the previous weeks, but that night I was certain I had created strong family ties. They're not family in the real sense of the word, but strong friendship relations almost fill up the definition of that word. Anyway, time passed by like nothing and quickly Saturday came around the bend.

The Posada is a traditional Mexican pre-Christmas celebration which can be celebrated up to nine days before December 24th, wherein the wanderings and requests for shelter of Joseph and Mary are commemorated. In its essence it's just another excuse to get together to drink and eat joyfully, albeit with a religious character. The guests have to divide into two groups, one of them who stands outside representing Joseph and Mary requesting shelter, the other one who stands inside the house representing the landowner. According to the tradition the owner rejects twice their requests, but ultimately concedes and lends them a place for the night. This dialogue is sung by both parties with fixed lyrics and melody. When the 'pilgrims' enter the house it is time to eat. After dinner it's customary to break the internationally known piñata. The Padilla family pretty much followed this tradition and it helped me to remind the significance of the celebration which I had forgotten over the years. When we started singing I thought about how many typical Mexican customs were unknown to me while I, as a half Mexican, should cherish them. I had stayed for too long in Belgium, I felt. This is the dilemma: I can't have a four-year hiatus after every visit to Mexico, but at the same time I want to explore other parts of the world too. Whether I come over every year or stay away for decades, after I leave this country I'll have to try to keep up my Mexican identity. No doubt about that. Anyway, I had a lot of fun that night. After we had all eaten the piñatas were brought up. While I was documenting how the kids joyfully were trying to break it, one of the guests called my name. Rapidly the whole gang were shouting that it was my turn. As much as I tried to refuse it, I was forced to take the stick and hit the piñata. Well, I wasn't really forced to, moreover I wanted to participate in the tradition. So before I knew it I was blindfolded - this in representation of my blind faith to god, *ahum* - and started swinging around, trying to hit cardboard star with seven points, which stands for the seven cardinal sins. It had been ages since the last time I had had a piñata. As a little kid I would often have one on my birthdays, but instead of being happy for it I would always cry and/or turn mad because I didn't want the beautiful cardboard creation to be beaten to death. At the posada I didn't cry or anything, but laughed like a hyena while the rest was doing likewise. For a brief moment I felt young again. After that part was over I was called yet again to the center of attention with Carmen, on of the daughters, asking me to dance. Refusing was futile, almost letting her walk away empty-handed, so I thought "Fuck, why not?". Again, everyone was laughing at me or with me. My dancemoves were horrible, maybe even embarrassing, but I guess that's my style. I like to make a fool out of myself on the dancefloor. First there was some salsa music playing and, despite I took one class in Belgium a while ago, I had forgotten the basics. Luckily Carmen was very patient with me and helped me out on my moment of glory. It's interesting to see how a lot of people here dispose of a minimum ability to dance according to the rhythm, as if they were born with it, while in Belgium they all move like tree trunks. That's why in my country I can boast so-called 'latino' moves whereas here I can't, consequently falling in embarrassment. I've been thinking a while about taking some salsa classes...

The rest of the night slowly transformed into a drinking party. The Padillas wanted to organize a little goodbye party, so Alfredo supplied those who didn't let their hand off the bottle constantly with beer and 39 pesos tequila. Our merry band of drinkers was expanded by Jonathan, an ex of one of the family's daughters, and an almost midget whose name I have forgotten. From that point on the alcohol haze turned into a loud bacchanal with me urinating against the neighbour's car while they walked out of the door and the midget man singing beautifully rancheras about getting drunk, etc. We had to carry the poor man home, he was done for the night. And then there was Jonathan who had arrived with two kids whose origin is unclear who obviously had to be brought home. The poor kids had to wait for hours while we drunk bottle after bottle, which now in retrospect makes me feel a bit ashamed. Jonathan said to them: "Just wait a little bit more. The thing is, I don't understand. I'm trying to finish it [the beer], but it won't. It just keeps coming! I don't understand!". That's one hell of an example for those kids... Anyway, I helped to carry one of them home. Afterwards I just remember crawling into my bed with my shoes on. I had already forgotten it was balls-freezing cold.

And so the last day of my stay at the Padilla family had arrived. While I was sitting at the table for breakfast I received a last lesson in the hazards of water. I had forgotten to mention that they believe so strongly in Holy Soda that they're actually convinced that water harms your inner system. I knew Mexicans and water didn't really match, but they really scared me. They tried to convince me that drinking water during or after inebration is the worst you can do and that a beer or a carbonated softdrink does you more good. Discussing was completely impossible with these people. They invented a medical term to scare me from drinking water for the hangover, looking disappointed while I was filling up my glass with delicious, fresh H2O. Fuck that, you believe in La Santa Coca. Don't come crying if you're diagnosed with diabetes because I will point my finger at you and laugh. But no, I shouldn't insult their veneration for Mr. Cola, they were much too nice for me. I said my goodbye to everyone and left for the busstation to catch the next bus to Guadalajara, where another family had been waiting for me. Honestly, I was quite sad to leave San Francisco. I really enjoyed it there. But on the other hand I was relieved to finally move on. At this tempo I won't get to Buenos Aires by August. Last thing worth mentioning is a djembe player on the bus who was singing about transitoriness of life, how everything comes to an end. "Todo tiene su final/Nada dura para siempre/Tenemos que recordar/Que no existe eternidad." (Everything has its end/Nothing lasts forever/We have to remember/Eternity does not exist). With those simple words I melancholicaly reflected on my three weeks in San Francisco and all other places I had been. If there's one sad thing about traveling, it's leaving things behind. So to share this temporary state of melancholy, here's the video of the lyrics:

Mexico City: Where your sanity is for sale, just like everything else

Chapter 2: Holy Flag Of The Wicked


One of U.S.' many unfavourable stereotypes is its heavy, sometimes ridiculous security measurements at airports and public buildings. To my surprise, a similar behaviour exists in Mexico. An example of this is the Museum of Anthropology and the National Palace. In the first tourist magnet, first you have to walk through a metal detector and take everything out of your pockets. Then, useless "security officials" - simple-minded people who are given an "authoritarian" function - oblige you to drop your bag at the bag deposal. After you dropped your bag, these people guide you further towards the entrance which is difficult not to see. It felt kind of ridiculous undergoing the whole security process for only a museum visit. That wasn't that bad. El Palacio Nacional's secured entrance was a notch higher. To visit, first you have to queue up through a ridiculous long barred-off corridor. Your bag you have lose compulsory. Then, you pass through the first metal detector followed by a second one (!!!). From the beginning not "security officials" but armymen watch every step you take, ready to blast your head off with their M16s and Cal.12 shotguns. Once you think the burden is over, inside your forced by the same armymen to follow a fixed route trough the museum. Personally, I was only interested in Diego Rivera's famous murals that decorate the palace's walls. Instead I was forcibly guided just as everyone else like a herd of brainless sheep as if not able to walk your own route. Already slightly annoyed, the other visitors and me were guided into what seemed like a gas chamber. It was a 360º cinema room, where on all four walls and ceiling a nationalist propaganda movie was shown, with the apparent intention of reminding the visitors of their blind patriotism. With that over with, we continued in group all the way till the end. Luckily it was interesting, but the whole security thing is kind of blown up. Later I was told it is part of the whole Bicentenary of Independance and Centenary of the Revolution, which was intensely celebrated in the month of September, but still is visible in daily life. Another example of the celebration of 200 years Mexicanidad (Mexicanness) is the light and sound show at Mexico City's main square El Zócalo. A myriad of citizens showed up for the heavy patriotic-inspired event. Actually, the whole show recounted the country's history from the early Mesoamerican civilizations till today. Again, it seems the government put a lot of effort, and of course a lot of money, into ways that remind the people of their supposed love for the flag.

Before the light show there was an interesting contrast on the same main square. Two Jebus-like figures exclaiming the true nature of the government and its wretched practices, with other words, their version of the Truth. Among their topics were the discriminatory behavious towards 'El Pueblo' (The rural people), the false battle against the drug cartels, electoral fraude, misleading and embezzling humanitarian actions from the government, the political circus covered in nepotism, misspent money into the celebration of the bicentenary, etc. Both urged the need to evolve towards a new era of enlightenment to end the wicked state of the country that affects many unfortunate Mexicans. The two messiahs shouted clamorously, filled with frustrative anger, and seemed completely convinced of their declamations. While the main square was slowly filling up, interested listeners gathered and quietly listened while seated on little kindergarten-style stools, applauding occasionally after strong, critical comments. One of the two messiah's final quote was an exclamation to the emphasis on money and not on people, and how it should be vice versa. Right after he was done and applauded his accomplice who had been standing idle during the whole rhetoric rattled a poorly-filled can around asking the audience for 'cooperación' (cooperation), i.e. a few coins to support the "revolution". How about the contradiction?

A day in the life: a photo report

Finally, here it is, a selection of the most interesting pictures of my trip so far. I know, it took a while, but anyway, here it is. Enjoy!


===>>> http://picasaweb.google.com/diegofaes/OffToTheRootsAndFURTHURDown?authkey=Gv1sRgCLDNi-CAp-71gwE&feat=directlink <<<===

(you may have to download a small google application. Don't be afraid, there's no virus.)

...All is well...

San Francisco: painting walls and baking cookies

The past week I've been staying with some friends of my parents in a small town called San Fancisco near Tecamac, about half an hour from the capital. Past Sunday I took the liberty to suddenly pack my bags, say thanks to my patient hosts in Mexico City and continue to my next destination. A rare privilige of arbitrary displacement I've been enjoying very much so far. Getting there involved yet again an interesting occurence. Once I found the bus towards San Francisco in one of Mexico City's many shady neighbourhoods, I was told it woud take around 25 minutes to get there. Stupidly enough, I trusted the busdriver and his sidekick - the fee collector - to warn me in time when we got there. A mistake I've made on several occasions on this trip is to think that by my foreign appearance people would automatically help me out on finding the way. On a certain moment, long after those 25 minutes had passed, the bus stops and a number people get off. I thought a bus with fixed destinations would of course stop everywhere where its designated to stop in order to let people off or to pick people up. But, because asking never hurts, I informed to the bus driver after my stop, to which he jokingly responds: "Oh, we already passed that one." "What? How? What do you mean?", confused. "Well yeah, nobody stood up so I thought no one was gonna get off at that stop." What the fuck? Do I have to smell when we get to San Francisco? It was fucking dark and obviously I wasn't from around there. Apparently, now I learned, people don't just get up before the bus even comes to a stop because they're impatient Mexicans. If you don't get up, the bus doens't stop and you can go fuck yourself. There you go, another example of Mexican logic. However, that was just a minor incident worth blowing up. Eventually I met up with those friends who I hadn't seen in seven years and all was good.

The friends are Alfredo and Leti, a couple who lived with their two daugthers for a year and 15 days in Antwerp, Belgium. Back then I was rather young and didn't much care for their presence. Even worse, I had cultivated a ridiculous antipathy towards Carmen, the younger of the two sisters, for the sole reason of her voice. In those days she had quite a high-pitched, almost lamentable - and to me irritating - little girls' voice. At that age, I was kind of a cumbersome, tiny bastard capable of hating people for no apparent reason (Nowadays, I try to substantiate any dislike towards certain people). That period of my life still ashames me till this day. Much interaction with those people was not really interesting to me. So after a while they left back for Mexico, disappearing from my memory. In the course of the years after their departure my parents and I went to visit them twice, on occasions we traveled to Mexico. By then I had grown a little bit more mature and put aside my indifference. I met Alfredo's older brother Victor, who lost most of his sight as a result of falling on his head while working as a mason, and his younger brother Manuel AKA 'Manolo', who lost his parents on a critical moment of his young manhood. Of both, Victor inspired me the most and would leave a permament impresion that made me never forget that family again. Seven years after the last time my parents and I visited them, I decided to return. What first started as a few-day visit, resulted in an intense week of working wherein I slowly started feeling like a member of the family. As of now, I'm still staying at their place and to my surprise, they don't want me to leave yet.

On Monday my first day as temporary aid started with Victor asking me after breakfast whether I wanted to learn how to paint walls with a plaster applicator (a mechanical device made out of stainless steel that litteraly 'sprays' plaster by means of a thing that spins, or something. Hell, I'm not a construction worker). From that moment on I helped everywhere where two extra hands were needed. That marked an interesting change to the classic tourist activities I've been doing for the past two months.

While working on the paint job I remembered how Victor is an illuminary example of perseverance, willpower, patience. He told me how he considered suicide at the beginning of his life in the dark while having two kids of nine and ten. At the school for visual impaired people he learned how to bake pastry, knot belts, read Braille, etc. Slowly he recovered and turned into a much stronger person than most of us with healthy eyes. After a while he even thought classes in that same school, although just recently he was thanked for his loyal service because he was starting to become an 'oldie', i.e. costing too much as a professional who normally deserves a higher salary. Now he only has his bakery and a tiny banking bussines for loans that keep his family feeded, clothed and educated. Besides that, now and then friends of friends of friends come to him asking his construction worker expertise for small-time jobs. But one thing more than everything has pulled the man throughout his unfortunately altered life: humour. For some reason he finds relief in mocking at his disability, while the rest of the family joins in with the laughter. For example, at his workshop Victor asks for his white cane to which Tisho, a family friend, yells at him: "It's there man! Fuck, can't you see? What are you, blind?" In the beginning I felt pretty akward, but rapidly I got used to how his family members treat him and even started joking at him myself. It gets to the point where I sometimes forget he's visually disabled. You can talk to him, even walk with him through the streets of The City of Madness, without noticing he's partially blind. Somewhere it's ironic, and in a way completely logical, that a man with an essential sense disabled can teach more to, let's say, a 'fully working' person than the other way around. Not only I am learning lessons in overcoming hardship, he has even tought me to make an excellent pizza Hawaii. Over the course of the first week I met more friends of his, most of them also visually impaired, each with a silencing incredible life story. One worth mentioning is Jesus, or 'Chucho' as they call him, who at the age 25 in a heavily concious-altered state of mind (shitfaced and high on whatever he could lay his hands on) jumped intentionally in front of an approaching truck, slinging him several meters away, landing on his head and consequently losing complete sight. Now, about thirty years after that rather idiotic act, each Tuesday he uses Victor's industrial oven to bake 10 panqués (pound cake) which he sells in the course of a week. With that money he tries to make ends meet. Even he, whose attempt to recovery was less progressive than Victor's, is laughed at. Completely devastated from his story, I bought a whole pound cake to help him with his business. I don't know if that really helped him, but it made me feel better anyway.

After we had finally done spray-painting the walls and cleaned up, the whole family joined together for coffee and pastry, a ritual performed every day at night when everyone's done working or fulfilling obligations. Sadly enough, in a country where excellent coffee is grown in states like Veracruz and Chiapas, the majority drinks Nescafé instant soluble coffee. In this case, I try to put aside my elitism and enjoy the warmth of sitting together, talking, laughing, drinking. The next days I alternatingly helped remodelling the house and baked cookies in Victor's workshop. During the working hours I've been receiving instens lessons in paronomasia (double entendre, form of word play), better known as 'albur', a type of humour extremely popular in Mexico. Usually, the double meaning carries a sexual undertone and is often difficult to understand if not pointed out, especially for foreigners who don't dominate Mexican idioms and figure of speech. A simple example: Person A asks person B "Tu papa ya es grande?" (Is your father old?), to which B can answer 'yes' or 'no'. But what A is really asking is "Tu papaya es grande?" (Is your papaya big?), which in this context means whether B's vagina is big, seen that the tropical fruit is used as a synonym for women's genitals. Simply by shifting the accent from one syllable to another you can completely change the meaning of a sentence as in the example. That seems like ridiculous, immature humour but it's huge in Mexico. There are even albus contests wherein contestants try to insult eachother the most with subtle double entendres, kind of like rap contests. It's not easy, but I'm starting to recognize when the others are pulling my leg.

To end the workweek I joined the family to a typical rural wedding. They told me it was fun because of the fact it was held in a small village. So I put on my best clothes (checkered shirt, completely ripped skinnies and some borrowed shoes), jumped in the Volkswagen Combi with the others and head off to the party. At first when they invited me I was confused that we wouldn't be attending ceremony, instead only going to the party to eat and drink. I thought they were joking, but that's exactly what we did. We arrived, looked for a free table and waited to be served. The food was carnitas, an ensemble of various meat accompanied with rice, mole poblano (kind of a heavy sauce), corn tortillas and some kind of soup. Still feeling akward of the whole set-up, Tisho the family friend assured me: "Don't be afraid, man. Here you can eat as much as you want. No stress." And so it happened. Throughout the whole evening we sat down at the table eating, drinking and watching people dance. The last was kind of boring since my company weren't keen dancers. Partly out of conformity, partly out of embarrasement I joined them in their sitting marathon. Although, there was one occasion in which almost everyone stood up to perform a custom typical for Mexican Weddings: la Vibora de la Mar (the Sea Snake). Originally a children's game, a very popular variation has become an indispensable standard in weddings. When la Vibora de la Mar is announced, men and women are separated to form long "snakes". On this particular wedding first the kids lined up. Both bride and groom stand on chairs while the latter holds the train of the bride's gown. These two are surrounded by chosen ones, usually close friends, with the purpose of preventing the married ones of falling down. Because, and this is quite funny, the "snakes" formed by both sexes have push them until they fall off to the increasing tempo of the song. Analogous with the sexes, the women have to push the bride over while the men try to tip the groom. The meaning of the whole game is quite unclear to me. I was told that it represents the couple may never be seperated regardless of all problems. If one of those human snakes succeeds in pushing over one of both married ones it supposedly means they will separate. As I see it, it's just an excellent excuse to involve the whole gang of guests and enjoy a fine piece of violent slapstick humour. Obviously, I participated. The men's snake was pretty rough (= could be an albur), resulting in the fall of the groom. After that happened, he is lifted up by friends who lead him through the hall to the tunes of Chopin's 'Funeral March', representing the end of his carefree life of fun, drinking and zero responsibilities. When that ritual was over everyone returned to their tables, and we ordered a bottle of cheap tequila rip-off worth 39 pesos (= 2.30 EUR). Since their was no more beer or any other lighter alcoholic beverage, I threw myself on the Rancho Escondido resulting in a terrible hang-over the next day, one like I hadn't experienced since very long. Apparently, I got kind of wild on the way home shoutingly requesting music and spilling the cheap liquor all over my clothes. When they finally played music I fell asleep on the Victor's shoulder (he's a large person = excellent cushion). When I woke up the next day with all my clothes and shoes on I realized I wasn't that sober than I thought I was. That was a fun wedding.

Mexico City: Where your sanity is for sale, just like everything else

A series of observations, short-stories and anecdotes found in a megalopolis where too many people live on a too small territory, like sardines in a capsule, where noise pollution is perpetual and the term unexisting, traffic rules are obsolete rendering a pedestrian life worthless and pure madness rules the lives of the millions of ants swarming about in a giant volcanic crater that sustains the city. Indeed, insanity in excess. Here there's no lack of inspiration. The observant eye saturates in this city that never sleeps.


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Chapter 1: First taste

It all starts in the city's subway, 'el Metro'. In a metropole like Mexico City, where according to the latest figures published in 2009 a total of 8.84 million inhabitants was recorded, a well-oiled public transportation system is indispensable. As of this year, about 5 million citizens every day use the extensive metro network that only runs throughout the metropolitan area. Many of them are people from outside of town who have to cover insane distances every single day to reach their work in time. Two-hour routes to and from are not rare. So to put it simply, there is a constant influx of passengers in subway stations who if not transported right away, a massive accumulation of impatient Mexicans fills both platforms and wagons. Therefor, a maximum waiting period of one or two minutes is no superfluous luxury. But anyway, the subway is a breeding-ground of peculiar odours, people from all social classes and manic vendors who even when the cars are jam-packed succeed in crawling trough the almost homogenous mass of humans to sell their merchandise. And believe me, they are the sole responsibles for making a ride entertaining, which also means that reading or conversing pleasantly is out of the order. For me, coming from a country where silence and discretion on buses and trams are holy, where ill-clothed adolescents with too high self-esteem are stared to death when they play the latest discussable radio hits from their shiny cell phones, where the drivers call for calmness when their ears hurt from the noise, public transport in Mexico is almost as entertaining as TV, if not better. And here in the Big City, that is no different. One after the other, men and women walk in and open their throat to yell out a memorized advertising text summing up the various characteristics of their products. It seems like all of them belong to a same company because they practically sell their products in a similar way. Only the product itself changes. And surprisingly, passengers actually buy from them. Of course now and them, however limited, you'll see a musician or a whole band walking in to play a few tunes. Sometimes completely equipped with amplifier and microphone. In fact, the metro is no more than a market on wheels. A small choice selection of their merchandise: peanuts, Hershey's chocolate bars, crossword puzzles, scissors, pens, booklets, refreshing throat pills, pirate movies, chewing gum, corn-made candy bars, etc. The most remarkable thing I've witnessed are those who sell mp3 CDs of various genres. They walk in with a fully working stereo in their backpack and wait until the metro starts riding to blast away random songs or so-called 'intromixes' extremely loud with the intention of catching the passengers' attention. Just imagine standing there, minding your own business, when suddenly loud music combined with advertising roaring sounds from a guy's backpack standing next to you. That scares the shit out of you! At least with me. Because when you look at fellow passengers, you'll notice half a dozen people looking up and then skillfully ignore the racket. In short: you're never bored.

Another classic stereotype that haunts the city is its horrendous traffic. Like I've mentioned before, Mexicans don't know how to drive. I know. It's an easy generalisation of their driving skills. But once you walk around and try not be overrun by maniacal automibilists you'll agree. Red lights unfortunately don't per se mean it's safe to cross the street. Once you don't see cars moving in your direction you can almost safely walk till the other side. Spending only nine days in the center, I've caught a habit of looking at least two times in the direction of waiting cars to make sure the lights don't suddenly switch to green. Seen that pedestrian lights are a rarity, that habit is not unnecessary. Subsequently, honking is the main source of the city's noise pollution. Mexican automobilists will find any reason justified to honk their horns, causing a fragile soul to go insane in a matter of minutes. Be it a slow mover, a double-parked car, crossing pedestrians, an attractive woman on the sidewalk or even police officers trying their utmost best to guide traffic and people into safety. This starts pretty early in the morning and lasts well into the night. And the best part is, it's absolutely useless. I think if automobilists were to realize that honking their horns eternally don't actually make traffic move more efficiently, the city would be a much nicer place. But at the same time it would take away its 'charm'.

As a result of the enormous amount of vehicles bustling through the streets and giant factories who blatantly ignore ecologic measurements to contain their toxic excrements, a thick layer of smog hangs perpetually above the city as an all-containg dome perforating the citizens' lungs who most likely have evolved into a superiour type of respiratory organs capable of minimizing the hazardous effects. It is not necessary to stand at the city limits to notice the brownish cloud, instead just walking through streets is enough to inhale and actually see the foul air. Sometimes, when pollutants get trapped inside water droplets in clouds, acid rain falls down from the sky. That causes for example paintings and hieroglyphics of ancient monuments to disappear gradually. Not only that, just imagine walking to work and feeling your skin irritated as a result of polluted rain. But then again, citizens' skin may have evolved into a stronger version able to shield of the burning rain.

Mexico City can be given several nicknames. In older times it used to be known as 'La Ciudad de los Palacios', or City of Palaces. That was in the 19th century, before the uncontrolled demographic expansion took place. Others, more ridiculous, are City of Hope and City in Movement. Mexicans living outside the capital refer it mockingly as 'Chilangolandia', derived from the pejorative nickname 'Chilango' given to the citizens. I, personally, like to call it City of Madness or Insanity. Every observation made constitutes that denomination. As I will post more, you'll understand why. But the best name for the city is assigned by Manu Chao: El Hoyo. Litteraly meaning 'The Hole', it says exactly what it means. Mexico City rests upon a soft and inapt base what used to be Lake Texcoco, causing it to sink several centimeters each year. According to Mister Wiki the city has sunk up to nine meters. Beside that, it's located in the Valley of Mexico, also known as the Basin of Mexico. Surroundings consist of mountains and volcanoes reaching heights of 5000 meters. That means all toxic fumes produced actually stays inside, hence the perpetual smog. With a bit of imagination, you can see the earth slowly swallowing the city into its wake while exhaust fumes suffocate its inhabitants. I know, it's a pretty apocalyptic and depressing scenario I've drawn. So to alleviate the negative image, here's the video of Manu Chao's 'El Hoyo'. A hymn to the insanity of La Ciudad De Mexico. Enjoy.

"Yo vengo del Hoyo/Tepito fayuca/Yo vengo del Hoyo/De la Gran Ciudad..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMoD6Q0uxBw

Two weeks of speed-traveling

Relaxing in Queretaro

After that interesting weekend of mind-exploration I turned to calmer pace, away from conciousness-altering substances. The city of Queretaro was next on my itinerary, a beautiful city whose historic center appears with its charming colonial style on UNESCO's World Heritage List. A delightful small-sized city to walk around in, almost like my hometown Antwerp, but of obviously not as nice. First I had a bit of trouble finding a couch to crash on, so I stayed in the city's only hostel where there was little to do. Eventually I had a chat with a guy from Phildelphia, U.S., who was teaching English and another guy from Australia, who had been busted in Peru, or another South American country, for being caught under influence of cocain resulting in a few days stay in a juvenile penitenciary where he was stripped to his unnies and hit by prison guards. I learned that night to be careful down south. Apparently it's not a safe haven to do 'naughty' stuff. The next day I fixed a couch with a guy of the same name, Diego. That was interesting, because he kind of reminded me of myself. Not so much on pass-times but more his character, way of thinking and his musical preference. I always thought I would I hate an identical copy of myself, but in this case I didn't. Well, he wasn't exactly a perfect copy of me, although I found our similarities rather funny. In fact, Diego was pretty cool. And so were his friends, who I met at his university where accompanied my host to his classes (He studies Communication). Why not? It's an interesting change to the classic touristic activities. Eventually I only attended one class about Twitter... Seriously. Twitter. The whole hour the professor talked about how managing a Twitter account. How to post shit and modify your page with colours and all. I'd heard about PhDs on blogging. But twittering? When did that thing gain the sufficient importance to take in a whole semester on university level? After that intrigueing coterie it was time for audio-editing or something like that. Actually it was more of a 'fun hour' whererin Diego showed me a few of his radio-broadcast short-stories about aliens and the like. After 20 minutes or so, we skipped back to the playground. The rest of the morning/afternoon we spent drinking cheap beers in a bar where we had to wait an eternity for our tortas (Mexican sandwiches) because the cheese had turned bad (???). So much for school...

So with a severe stomach ache as a result of that torta I once again said my goodbye and hopped on a bus towards Mexico City, the capital of the country. Now, every time I sit on one of those long-distance lines I always hope to nail half a book down. But that has been proven to be quite difficult on Mexican buses. Usually they impede my reading plans by showing the worst Hollywood box office hits at high volume so that every reflectionary thought or attempt to use the brain for intellectual purposes becomes difficult, if not, annoying. Or, it's nighttime thus the busdriver dims the lights and the personal lights don't work properly. On that bus ride in particular the indigestion made thinking too hard. Anyway, none of that is of significant importance.

Welcome to El Hoyo

Once we drove into the vastly-extended city one of its most common known clichés - actually more a charactaristic - manifested: its traffic. Quite in the beginning I had observed how lousy drivers Mexicans are, but it's even worse in the capital. Although it's not entirely due to their lack of traffic insight, rather a direct consequence of too many people living on a too small space. We had entered some kind of industrial area where it was totally normal to see enormous trailers with heavy loads trying to penetrate traffic in opposite direction. Forget about lanes. They are marked alright, but they are obsolete. And yes, their are traffic lights. But those too are ignored so that extra police officers are required to guide the frenzy drivers with safety. More on that in the section dedicated entirely to the capital later on. Finally arrived at the busstation I reluctantly took a cab to the apartment of the Palomino brothers, cousins of a Belgian friend who like me also enjoys both nationalities, Mexican and Belgian. That same night Adrian, the older of the two, had invited three friends of more or less the same age for dinner. Although I was still suffering from a raging war inside my guts, I stubbornly decided to join in with the gourmet pizza they had ordered. And what do you know? The pain disappeared. And didn't really eat little. So now I learned whener I my digestion organs are fucked up, I have to eat even more. Excellent! Eating has become not only a main source of expense (even more than beer!!!), but also daily necesarry objective next to visiting museums and such. Street food is incredibly cheap out here and they are litteraly everywhere, which makes resisting it very hard. Good thing I have a fast metabolism, or else I would be fat bastard already. For now, I don't mind being avaricious. "You only live once", a good friend of mine told me not so long ago.

The next day Matti, one of my roommates from Antwerp, came to fulfil his promise of visiting me on my trip. When he told me he was coming over obviously I was sceptical. The man didn't even make it to Pamplona, Spain at the time. However, he totally surprised me late September when he informed me that he had bought a plane ticket to Mexico City. And there he was. Isn't that nice? I sure think it is. At the airport while I was waiting a struck up a conversation with an old guy who together with his ex-wife was awaiting his daugter's arrival from Germany. He impressed with his knowledge both French and German. Few Mexicans can even say the basics in English. How insignificant as it appears, I had a warm conversation with him about this and that. The arrival hall is filled with people with interesting stories, I found out. One can really feel the warmth of hope followed y reassuring joy of reunion. There is also a touch of despair, impatience for the longed-one to appear majestically out of the slide-doors that seperate the waiters from the travelers. In fact, the moment when someone walks through that door reminds me almost of a rockstar appearing on stage with everyone gazing at him. The hall is nice place to be. Everyone shares a common feeling of happiness which is seen in their faces or manifests in their loud screaming whenever they see the awaited. I did so myself. "Matti!!!", I yelled at full voice, standing on top of the seats. And you know, I felt as happy as a little child when he sees his daddy back from a business trip. Quickly I derived from his look that something was wrong, something I had easily predicted before. Completely confused, he stepped trough the gate with ni backpack. The man had succeeded in skipping the baggage claim-part and the succesive control. Really. What the fuck, Matti? Anyway, that little incident resolved quickly so we could greet appropriately.

Homewards, on the metro (a segment I will discuss extensively in the short-story), my friend was inmediately confronted to the big city's madness. Unlike buses and trams in Belgium, or elsewhere in North West Europe, where silence and discretion are holy, public transport here is the complete opposite, another world. Especially in the capital. One after the other, vendors selling all kinds of things from chocolates, nuts, scissors, crappy toys, crossword puzzles, etc. walk in and out yelling promotional descriptions of their merchandise in a highly irritating tone that characterizes many Defeños, or capital citizens. I had just started to adapt to metro life but for Matti that was a first shocking, mostly hilarious confrontation with Mexican frenziness. More on subterranean mind-cracking blues later on.

Fake enclosed paradises

We didn't stay long in Mexico City because Matti had only a limited amount of time to explore the country, i.e. nine days. Next stop after the capital was Puebla, yet another charming city only two hours away. The main reason we went there was to visit one of Matti's friends Jente (that's a girl's name), who studies as an exchange student, kind of like the Erasmus program but cooler. Interesting about that visit was the social environment she and her housemates resided in. Their communal house is located inside a condominium, a sealed-off and - depending on the residents' income - heavily-guarded complex of houses and/or apartments. A main charactaristic of those condos is the perplexing difference in the overall feel. By that I mean the difference in houses, streets, cleanliness, safety and most of all people. For instance, the street where it was situated was a characteristical dirty, but very charming Mexican street with loud music, a variety of food stands and third-hand cars. The condo - I like to refer it as a concealed prison - was completely different, reminding of a neat, sterile Amirican suburb. No traffic, kids playing on the streets, big, clean cars,... It's quite a change. I understand that people of certain (upper) social classes feel the need to shut themselves off from the plebs, the ordinary, maybe out of unjustified fear or plain contempt. How cosy such a complex can be, to me it's a ridiculous, pompous tiny utopia for people who need armed guards to seperate them safely from the "dangerous" streets of the poor. Just imagine. It was quite tough outside, between them beaners and low-salary workers. Man oh man, was I shitscared... And when I thought that Jente's community was over-the-top, you should have seen the other one we went to where we were invited to someone's birthday. Tongues say that at least three families of narcotraficantes, or drug-traffickers, reside in there. Well, based on the guards equipped with M16s and shotguns I'm ready to believe that. But anyway, the birthday party was held in an enormous house with ridiculously giant TV. Goddamn, you should have seen it. You could make five medium-sized TVs out of the material used for that one. It burnt your eyes and you could almost feel your brain cells suffering a horrible death from the extreme radiation coming out of the tube. Their wealth was so in-your-face that I didn't feel quite comfortable between the rich kids. Luckily they were very nice and apparently interested in my double nationality. Our stay was of short duration. Jente wanted us to see 'Container City', litteraly a city of containers stacked up to three stories high housing restaurants, bars, clothing shops, clubs and so on. It was pretty cool, actually. The place attracted loads of hip youngsters and foreigners. First we stayed at a bar where a long-haired DJ was playing Daft Punk-style beats. I was more attracted to the container next to us where a band was rocking out. In fact, I had become incredibly stoned from the weed that friend of Jente's gave us. 'Orange crush', or something, it was called. Whatever it was, I was fucking high. I hadn't been so high since Austin. But that in parentesis.

Disco on wheels and turds

After the weekend Matti and I decided to go to Uruapan. For what reason I don't remeber anymore. The fact is that our stay there was pretty useless. The most interesting part was the bus that took us to center. Another thing remarkable to public transport is the versatility, actually more artistic freedom, bus drivers have to pimp their vehicle to the max. One basic addition that almost every driver makes is the instalment of a hi-fi audio system to play their favourite music - far too often irritating ranchera. And not seldom do they play the music at high volume so that you have to scream to ask the bus's direction. Interesting. In my country people - including myself - look up annoyed whenever a 'cool' adolescent walks in with his favourite, degenerate commercial horseshit cracking from their shiny cell phones. Now, the bus my temporary travel compagnon and I were on was a level higher in relation to its 'pimpedness'. Not only were the lights dimmed with only epileptic, crappy discolights flickering about, the guy behind the wheel played the most cheesy hits from the 80s. Yes, indeed. Just imagine listening to Boy George's 'Karma Chameleon' or 'Gold' by Spandau Ballet while sitting calmly towards your destination. For those who not know those names, below I posted their videoclips. You'll surely recognize them, and most likely, hopefully, laugh at the situation I described just now. Of course, the bus driver was outfitted according to his musical taste, as well as accompanied by two equally ridiculously dressed buddies. Matti and I laughed at this astranging observation, unlike our fellow passengers who clearly felt uncomfortable sitting in a kitsch discoteque on wheels.

The rest of the night we spent in a cheap hotel partly because there were no nearby bars open at that hour, partly because Matti had become ill. No stress, we had to wake up early anyway to catch a bus to our next stop. The only tell-worthy anecdote of the following morning was Matti's deposit of excrement in the bathroom. For some reason why I don't know - and quite honestly don't want to know - his feces spread out a horrible, horrible stench - like death - so potent that it pulled me out of my bed right away, stumbling towards the window to grasp fresh morning air and succesively clear out the nauseating smell from the room. That was one stinking turd! I think if there existed a competition for the most sickening piece of shit excremented from a human rectum my friend would not even receive his trophy as a result of fainting the jury and the entire crowd in his all-destroying perfume and consequently banish the game for the sake public health. What eventually happened was, Matti vomited. Maybe from his illness, most likely from the stench. It was the peyote's olfactory equivalent of utter repulsiveness.

Tourists vs. locals

After that ordeal was done we caught a bus to a small village up in the mountains called Angáhuan inhabited by the Purepechas, the local indigenous people. Angáhuan is the closest start-off point for visitors interested in climbing the Paricutín volcano where until a decade ago it was still possible to find hot lava inside the crater. Obviously, many tourists but not too many had come to that town for that purpose. When we arrived we were immediately attacked by annoying tourist-catchers trying to sell us guided horserides to the volcano. I always distance myself when they smell me, but we had to find a specific adress of a guy renting out a couple of lodges for tourists. From that moment when we asked for directions áll the way to our lodge - not kidding - the touristmongers followed us until we finally came to a feasible deal for the horses. Quite honesty, I wasn't too keen on renting a couple of horses to visit the mountain. I always feel stupid with those things. But Matti persuaded me and in the end turned out to be quite fun. However, the whole negotiating process, bargaining, waiting, got me on my nerves. In fact, I hate those situations. I hate being treated as a numb tourist supposedly loaded with cash and stupid enough to believe seller's pretty talks. Eventually, we reduced the price of 700 pesos to 400 pesos which I think was still too much. With that burden over, we climbed the horses and initiated the tour. In the beginning, still in-town, I felt completely ridiculous, almost embarrased. Being myself is already obvious, but riding a horse through a dark-skinned, curious town made me feel like emphasizing my tourist status by placing myself on a throne to show everyone I was exactly not one of them. Once we left town I felt no longer like that, and was immersed in the exciting feeling of freedom riding a horse at galloping pace through beautiful nature scenery.

Once we got at the foot of the volcano it was time to climb. It didn't seem too high and in fact it wasn't. But the loose, grainy soil made walking incredibly difficult. With every step I took I slid down several centimeters. That was very irritating. So irritating that I got mad, fucking angry. It was definitely the least fun ascent I've realized. All that suffering and cursing and hating fades away like snow for the sun when the top is finally reached. The 360º view is ever-rewarding. Completely exhausted, I lay waiting for my pall to appear. Poor guy. The same morning he was sick as a dog and there he was fighting mind over body. On top of the hill we talked about philosophical matters wherein Matti couldn't withold to mention Nietzsche's allegory of the mountain which roughly explains how from all bad things good things protrude. Without a doubt, I'm a man of mountains. Maybe from the sea too, but I haven't had the chance to experience similar contemplative moments at the beach.

Completely exhausted we returned to our lodge where our guide insisted on giving him a tip, whereas tipping is not obligatory in this country. We gave him what he wanted to get rid of him. Enough shit about tourists vs. locals. That same night we decided to make an evening stroll through the village, where both of us where looked at like never before-seen alien creatures. Well, that's mostly due to my friend, who measures about two meters, which is insanely tall for small Mexicans. Despite the cold mountain air at night we were suprised to see still many people outside on unpaved streets. To keep warm they simply made fires from lumber and what little garbage they found lying around. Even kids, who seem to turn that into a daily passtime. What was most surprising was the undefinable noise disturbing the otherwise calm, quiet life which characterizes a mountain village such as Angáhuan. The whole day through, from seven in the morning till late at night, a voice resonating from several installed megaphones orates some kind of prayer in the Purepecha language. What she or he said was unclear. It could be local news or advertisements. It became quite unbearable once the first voice was joined in by other male and female voices all reciting similar things in the same irritating tone but completely unsynched so that the whole resulted in a terrible, random cacophony. Which, is absurd for a small mountain village far away from the crazy city. A discrepancy, one might say. And so we concluded the evening with a cosy fire at our lodge. I couldn't help to think back of the peyote trip when I smelled the scent of burnt wood. During that trip I litteraly spent hours sitting in smoke. Definitely not healthy, but nevertheless an interesting Proustian memory.

'Got myself a new baby'

Next on our high-speed itinerary was Paracho, a Purepecha town known for its handcrafted guitars, supposedly the best in the whole country. Since I was still guitarless and the town was on our way to Guadalajara, we decided to halt briefly there so that I could finally buy a fine copy to satisfy my mental need. When you walk in through Paracho towards the center you'll see nothing but guitar shops. One less artisanal than the other. That was what I had feared before coming: not being able to seperate the wheat from the chaff. But than, completely unexpected, while we were strolling our the central plaza, this old man asks me whether I'm looking for a guitar. At first I thought he was just another begger asking for a coin. Aloof, critical (always), I argus-eyed inquired him on the quality of his guitars. He seemed very convincing, like all merchants do, and he proposed us to follow him to his workshop where his sons constructed the guitars. Once I saw that there was no shop, no window dressing, nothing, but instead a casual house with all the way in the back, behind the kitchen, the workplace I knew we had come to the right place. So did Matti, who reassured me by saying: "This is it, man." And indeed, pure handicraft. We had walked into a workshop the old man had built up in his younger days wherein he passed his guitar-building skills on to his five sons. Three of them were skillfully at work when we walked in, immediately pausing their duties to proudly show me their finest guitars as well as patiently listening and watching how I assessed their works of art. Because really, they were some fine pieces of woodmanship. Not surprisingly, the prices were in proportion to its quality. By one particular item I inquired about the price to which one of the craftsman boldly responded: "Esa está en 25." (That one is 25) "You mean, 25 ooo?" - "Exactly, we have one of 30 000 too." "Oh, right. Hmm, how about showing me that cheaper model, please?" Eventually I decided to buy the 6000 pesos guitar, roughly about 350 euros. From the ten prominent guitars who were hung up in a cupboard behind glass, that one was the cheapest. They had around 20 other guitars finished for sale presented in the rest of the room, which they didn't even bother to show me. Or they knew by instinct that I was looking for a decent guitar, or they swindled me in abuse of my ignorance. Either way, it's not a bad one. On the contrary, my new baby sounds magnificent and I grow more amorous by the day. She even smells nice. Now I hope they don't abduct her sometime during my journey. Together with my pictures (not the camera) and passports, she is the most valuable thing I possess at this very moment. Everything else may be taken away from me (although I sincerely wish that does not happen at any given time).

After the purchase we traveled to Guadalajara, Tequila and back to Mexico City. I'll just say it was fun, with a hilarious intermezzo in the birthplace of the tequila drink. Maybe I'll mention that later on. But for now you have enough reading material.

Voilà, yet another long one. I had much to write about and actually I'm still not finished. But have this as a nookie. Meanwhile I'll start on my short-story about Mexico City.

Till further notice,

Diego

(Thank you for your patience)

Een kleine videoboodschap

Hola, hello, goeiedag!

Ziehier een korte videoboodschap voor de Nederlandstalige vrienden. Ze is al een beetje oud, ik had nog niet de moeite genomen om het te online te zetten. Ik hoop dat jullie er iets aan hebben.

====>>> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nvlzv6cTbVc ***

How a prehistoric man watched the stars

Last weekend my host Francisco, three of his friends from Guadalajara and I made a pretty interesting camping trip to Real de Catorce, a tiny former mining town well-isolated from civilization and Tanque Dolores, an even more remote ranch in the middle of the desert. The main objective of that trip was the ingestion of peyote, a small, spineless and, most important of all, hallucinogenic cactus found mainly in desert land in the north of Mexico. It has been used for thousand of years by several indigenous people in Mexico such as the Huichol and the Tarahumara for ceremonial, religious and even healing uses. The effects can be roughly compared to psychoactive mushrooms and LSD, providing rich visual and auditory effects along with deep introspection, spiritual enlightenment and metaphysical experiences. To put it simply, it makes you trip as hell. But in a different way than mushrooms or laboratory-based chemicals. The spiritual aspect gives the trip a different aura. Depending on the amount taken, a trip can last up to 12 hours. It is also said the cactus confronts you with your inner fears and challenges you to overcome them. Now, enough smart-talk and over to the in-depth investigation of this wonderful plant.

For a long time now I've felt attracted to everything which alters your state of mind, more than just your state of body such as uppers. Mostly through several of my friends who're quite experienced at it. I always asked them what they felt, what the drug did with them, how hard it was, etc. On top of that I engaged in reading books and articles on that matter such as Aldous Huxley's 'The Doors Of Perception' and Tom Wolfe's 'The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test'. Whatever mind-altering substance I was to ingest, I was more than prepared to handle its effects through extensive tips given by friends and the literature written about it. One thing that has always refrained me from embarking on such experience was the fear going bad, having a 'bad trip', collapsing. Well, after that weekend I learned one has to face those fears and overcome them. I must say I succeeded more or less in doing so. But before I focus on that matter, I'll talk a little about the camping trip in general.

Friday well at night Francisco, his three friends and I drove off to the first stop Real de Catorce. His friends were Rodrigo, a student in medicine and affectionate lover of the herb, Marta, a silent but overly sympathetic student in economics and Geronimo, a geek-like computer wizard, victim of torturing migraine. All three splendid persons. I've been told good company is important on whatever psychoactive trip. I was assured. Upon arriving in the tiny miner town it was already after 22:00. No soul around and everything closed. Our main objective then was to find a nice place to camp out. Francisco had the illuminate idea of climbing up a small mountain, or high hill, to set out at the top in order to be closer to the stars and have an amazing view over land. Why not? So with everything we had, stacked upon shoulders, head and back the five of us started climbing up the mountain in pitch-dark. Luckily we carried flashlights, but it didn't take away the thrill executing such dangerous operation at nighttime. From the foot it appeared an easy stroll towards the summit. That turned out to be very deceiving. Every time we thought "we're nearly there!", a new and more difficultly accessible upward hill appeared from behind a small inclination. Of course we didn't give up and continued all the way until finally the steep and slippery rise flattened to a more or less horizontal surface. The rock- and pebble-filled ground wasn't ideal to lie on, but we had blankets to even it out. The view to the star-filled sky was over-rewarding. Not only did the celestial bodies shine brighter than one of those energy-saving lightbulbs, they were very close to the eye. Never had I been so close to them. I had the feeling I could almost grab them and tuck then neatly away in m y pocket. Over the dark mountains small factions of lanterns ornated the black contours with small orange dots pointing human activity. The next main concern was warming up because the cold out there was unbearable. Even I, seasoned Belgian, suffered from the bone-chilling cold to which once I was accustomed to. So we had to gather lumber. No trees around, but we did find dried cactus plants that burned as intensely as wood. In a short period of time we had made a huge fire measuring up to 1m50 in its climax. I burned my legs several times standing too close to it, but what a nice burnt feeling it was. In total, it was a wonderful night. Warm fire, music pounding out from my travel-size speakers, weed, Czech absinthe and neighboring stars. At one point we distanced from the fireplace to meditate towards the sky. Geronimo had trouble silencing for he found it odd. But when he noticed that no-one reacted to what he said, he got the point. That night not one, but three shooting stars passed my eyesight, a nature's phenomenon which I had never witnessed. So amazed, I forgot to make a wish. Suddenly it was already five in the morning, so in other words bedtime. The next day was an important day. Everyone crammed into the tents we'd set up, but I, overconfident as I am, decided to sleep by the fire. That went okay until it was slowly dimming and coldness kept me awake. Still, I had about two hours of essential sleep and at least now I can boast that I slept under the stars. How many people can say that?

The next morning we headed back downwards and found out there was a laid path starting from a huge, blue-coloured Jebus cross all the way down to the village. Following that route was considerably faster and safer than the live-risking ascent we performed the night before. Before heading off to Tanque Dolores where the peyote session was to take place, we visited Real de Catorce briefly. Absolutely worth it. The village is exactly how people basing themselves on movies would imagine Mexico to be. Of course, it thrived on tourism and at least twice in every street we were addressed by street-vendors and men all offering the same tour on horseback. Quite annoying, honestly. But it's their source of income. They're not completely useless, though. It's an excellent opportunity to train my ignoring skills which are essential when I'm walking through bustling markets or past infinite food stands. Really, you have to ignore all them because else you'll spend your day saying "no, thanks", "maybe another time" or "I'm just looking around, thank you". I know, it's rude, but, fuck it. My host in Monterrey taught me that.

In the ranch Francisco knew a family who owned a small country house right in the middle of the desert. Nothing but mountains, cacti, distant houses and infinite arid land surrounded the shack. Just imagine sunrise and sunset. It's magic. One of the four sons of the family, Guillermo, more or less owned the house. Apparently some guy from I can't remember where had bought it and now Guillermo was keeping an eye on it. In fact, in all the years of its existence the house had served as a base camp for people in search of peyote. An average of three times a month groups and individuals show up interested in finding and consuming the cactus. First, we drove to the family's own house where a friendly old man, the father and dubbed 'el Don', showed us the way to the place. Once we got there we hesitated no second and started our quest for the peyote. Something you ought to know is that the cactus is extremely difficult to find. It is said that peyote finds you and not the other way around. I strongly believe in that. After more than an hour searching the cheeky piece of flora in the burning desert sun we return homewards, disillusioned. We decided to go back to el Don to ask for his help. Actually, it is his son Guillermo who knows the spots, but he is also well aware. Upon asking, he willingly stepped in the car and guided us to the peyote. On a random point he told us to halt. So we stopped, got out and started our quest anew. Almost instantly el Don found the first one. We all gathered to see how it hides and were amazed by its camouflage. The cactus barely pops out of the ground, covered by dust and stone making it almost invisible. Another thing said about it, is that once you find the first one, the rest follows easily. That too was the case with us. After el Don, Francisco found his and so did the rest. Rejoicing filled our hearts, but I still felt disappointed that I hadn't found one of my own, almost with childish jealousy. But then suddenly, I found my first one. I felt as happy as a kid, like a pirate finding his treasure or as the U.S. army 'capturing' Saddam Hussein in a dug-out hole in the ground. To my surprise, I found all in all six peyotes simultaneously. Then I knew, time and place were right to ingest a hallucinogenic. Nature had called. In total, el Don and us found no less than 55 (!!!) peyotes. Considering that a person needs two to three to start tripping, that is a fairly high amount. Happy as hippos we returned, thanked the man and started with cleansing process.

At 18:30, once pealed and washed, we started ingesting the peyotes. I had heard from several people it bears a horrible taste. Supposedly, the most awful taste known to mankind. And yes, it was the most disgusting, repulsive, nauseating thing my tongue has ever had to bear. Really, nothing compares to it. Not even Brussels's Sprouts. Not even cocaine. I'm sure not even decayed salmon tops the incredibly bitter taste peyote has. Now, some things that don't taste too good are still edible, passible. But this was different. Like a little kid refusing to swallow whatever vegetable out of capriciousness, we suffered the same reluctance cramming the plant into our body. And to proof my apparent exaggeration, the stomach was so nauseated by this unknown taste that it pushed it right back from where it came from. Indeed, vomiting was inevitable, even with little food in our system. A small price to pay for a mind-blowing trip. Francisco, who had eaten it before, told us to eat it with root and all. I barely ate the second one completely, leaving the root for what it was. Right after I distanced myself from the group in order to undergo the same unescapable fate everyone underwent. Not much came out really, just the two peyotes and a little bit of stomach fluid. Once that unappetizing moment was over, the first strange feeling of the mescaline kicked in.

I started feeling slightly euphoric, comparable to light drunkenness. I had minor trouble walking straight and for some reason the fire we had started earlier glowed more intensely than before. Roberto, the 'doctor' as I called him, named up the different initial effects caused by the substance. I was feeling happy, to put it simply. Francisco and Rodrigo were starting to laugh like hyenas and didn't stop doing so throughout the entire trip. That was incredibly funny, especially because it made me laugh more about it. Geronimo, who was actually mentally unprepared for what he was about to feel I found out later, tried to rationalize what was happening to him. And Marta, she had trouble undergoing the inevitable nausea, fighting against herself until she too went to the pukeatorium. For the rest of the night, she lay inside the tent set up inside the house tripping in herself. Her journey was definitely very inwardly spiritual. Before Marta regurgitated the content of her stomach, I tried to calm her down because I felt she was going bad. The others didn't pay much attention to her, at least in the beginning. They had all individually set off into their own worlds. While I was holding her shoulder, giving her reassuring, I looked up to the sky. A fourth shooting star rocketed over the sky. When I tried to say: "Hey! A shooting star! It's my fourth already!", I paused halfway as a result of what was beyond that flying star. Suddenly, everything made sense. Everything I had didn't understand about the constellations before then came clear to me. It started with Orion, the largest star constellation, shooting fiercely the arrow from his bow like a great warrior. That marked the beginning of my unforgettable trip.

Every single star was connected and formed pinpoints of prehistoric figures all moving about, just like the ones you find in caves. Entire scenes with the little figures as actors were taking place in the darkened sky. Everything was moving, everything was intertwined. The stripes connecting the celestial bodies coloured red and green. I'm not sure wether those figures were genuine constellations, but they sure made sense to me. "Marta", I told her, "if you can, look up to the sky. It's marvelous. Now I understand." But she was too deep into her struggle. I asked Geronimo the same, but he waved away my request for he was already too busy fighting against his rational self. Around the same time, Guillermo had showed up with his herd of sheep and two filthy dogs. For a long time he accompanied us, saying very little, only mentioning how cold it was. All he did was sit by the fire, occasionally adding lumber to it. But most of all he listened. He listened to the noises we made, what we said. And often, he would just laugh, for good reason. Francisco and Roberto were two hilarious characters, bustling around, laughing like madmen and - for unknown reasons - stepping into the the car to turn on the lights and windshields. That cracked them up, alright. And me too. This Guillermo guy would in fact only talk when we asked him something. Roberto tried several times asking him what we was ahead of us, but in vain. The man would jokingly reply: "Yo no sé mucho, yo no sé nada." (I don't know much, I know nothing.) He damn well knew everything. He told us that he didn't do peyote anymore because it keeps him wake for three days. He was just there to observe. However, he did help us to make tea out the peyote. That's namely an easier way to inject the mescaline into the blood arteries, reducing its foul taste.

Meanwhile, I was starting to feel very well the psychoactive effects of the mescaline. It started with the sky, and now the fire was my main point of attraction. I heard, saw and felt several things at the same time. I heard the wind blow and the objects flying in its current, the crackling of burning lumber, the sizzling of the boiling water, the rubbing of my leather jacket. I saw more than my eyes could process, shades probably of my fellow trippers caused by the playing fire flashed by both extremes of my eyesight. I felt the shivering cold and the warmth of the fire at the same time. Reasons enough to become paranoid. But, as I discovered, I waved them away with a subtle laugh. Constantly there was a smile printed onto my face. I knew that positive predisposition would help me stay focused, out of the dark corners of hallucination.

For some reason, I felt extremely attracted to Guillermo's persona. Not in a sexual way, but in a way that I wanted to be like him. I considered him as our safe-keeper, our stability, our shaman. I felt, as long as he is with us, we fly safe. And I adopted his stance. Calmly, I remained close to the fire, observing the rest and reassuring Geronimo, who was growing more and more paranoid by the minute. Relaxed, laughing, gazing at the stars, helping the others, keeping the fire burning: I was in contact with my ancient, prehistoric past, the very beginning of my blood line. I had turned into a prehistoric man. And the cold was my fieriest enemy. Oh, how I hated him. The low temperature was the pathway towards darkness and negativeness. It led to the bad trip. So my self-imposed mission was not only to stay close to the warming light, but also to safeguard it. Make sure our eyes could see and our bones could warm up.

The others were starting to move like ghosts. Whenever they walked, first went their soul and then followed its flesh. I could see through them, and even through my own fingers. The bones within lit up like röntgen photos. By that time, the visual and auditory effects were very intense. The stones of the walls melted like chocolate-vanilla ice cream. The sky was stirring even more. Interestingly, the small one-person tent we had set up earlier on in sober condition near the fireplace was alive. So alive, that the small ventilation gaps as his eyes were winking at me, while the opening as his mouth was laughing. He was like a fat, unmovable Jabba The Hut character. Several times I tried to say: "Quit it man! It's enough already." But he would continue nonetheless and as a result made me laugh my guts out. I was afraid he would eat the others whenever they went in to sit down, but instead he kept them safely on his tongue. Man, was he comical character! The fire was coming alive by the minute. I saw the playing, sizzling flames as animals, as my dogs. They were constantly hungry, asking me to feed then with more lumber. But what they didn't know was that I was cannibalizing them. The sticks I threw in were the very same dogs that were asking me for more. I didn't question it. Silently I obeyed them. And whenever they would cry or bark I would hush them. "Ssssht, sssssht, it's alright. Don't worry, here's some more." And they would calm down. They were my dogs, alright. Sometimes I would just gaze into the glowing, bright orange-coloured hearth wherein the little pieces of lumber crawled about like little insects eternally burning. On top of the stones surrounding the flames we had laid for no particular reason a big piece of wood that after a while transformed into a skinned dog, his members stripped, ready to be eaten like adorable ducks in those Chinese restaurants. It wailed like it was suffering pain, while actually it was the watery liquid inside boiling up. That didn't scare me, though. Rather, it fascinated me. It got a hold of my eyes. An example of how such a trip can be extremely hilarious is the moment we had the bright idea of stacking an even bigger piece of wood on top of the other piece that resembled a eat-ready dog, over the fire. After an undetermined lapse of time when we all were quizzed by why it didn't burn at all Geronimo, the futile rationalist, shone his bright light onto the fire and screamed: "That's why it's not fucking burning! Look how we stacked the lumber!!", followed by uncontrollable laughter. Just imagine four idiots, tripping out of their minds, looking confused to two pieces of wood thinking what's wrong, why it doesn't burn. I think that's cracking.

My alter ego as caveman was accessorized with one particular stick whose both ends had the faces of dogs. Everything was dogs. I adopted it as my scepter, my ceremonial staff that crowned me ruler of the light. I took the plastic crate Guillermo had sat on, placed myself by the fire and uphold my scepter. By then the man had left us for we were all well ahead on our individual journey. Maybe there was too much insanity in the air for sober person. I wouldn't be surprised. When he left, Geronimo, Francisco and I lined up and said: "He took good care of us." Now that he had left, what I considered my source of stability was gone. So, it was my turn to adopt his safekeeping duty. That went swell, until my greatest foe, my nemesis, the Cold, was dragging me into his wake of negativeness.

At one point, the fire couldn't keep me focused anymore. The Cold was getting stronger and I didn't feel I was a point of stability anymore. Not even with my scepter. So I bequeathed the task of maintaining the fire to Geronimo in order to go the Marta, who had been lying in the tent the whole time and who offered me to lie with her to calm down a bit earlier. That was my only hope. So walk inside and ask permission to lie by her side. From that moment on, I drifted away in indescribable inner madness. The cold ground pierced my back, while the absence of a cushion or anything to rest my head on made me feel like I was drifting away into an abyss of the underground. Every minute or two I raised my hand to feel the space I was in because I would keep forgetting I was in a tent. The warm, woolen blanket on me didn't serve. I asked Marta to hold her arm, but even that didn't work. The feeling of me holding her disappeared riddlingly. What helped only momentarily was the headlamp I had around my neck that shone brightly, almost blindingly. What I saw is very difficult to describe. I would think of one thing, a thought, an object, whatever and that would be dissected into a thousand more things. I couldn't focus on one thing. Only thing I recognized was an '+'-shaped cactus from which more incomprehensible derivations would flow. And the sounds in my head were fragments of songs, also dissected into parts playing in extreme slow-motion. That was fucking scary. The calmness I hoped to found inside, by Marta, was unexisting. It escalated to that point that I wanted it to stop. I wanted no longer be out of control of my thoughts. And that's bad. Even in the darkest moments you shouldn't wish its ending. That just made it worse because you can't stop it. It's a one-way ride without breaks. Once embarked, you're in it till the very end. I concluded inside was a not a good place to be. It was Cold's hideout place. So I got up, manned up and walked right back to the very beginning of my trip where I had felt good: the fireplace. Suddenly, I was at ease again. The warm light soothed my inner fear imposed by my enemy. That asshole. After that brief moment of despair I decided not to be scared by Him anymore.

Outside, the three guys were silently sitting by the fire. I went into the one-person tent and lied on Jabba The Hut's tongue. With the others around, the light, and the sky I was well. For the rest of the night I stayed there, waiting until I the effects dimmed. I was starting to feel this thing was landing. And then suddenly, like a bubblegum pop, I stepped out of my alter ego and was myself again. I could feel my body again. I recognized my hands, my belly, my legs, my face, things I had trouble distinguishing before. I had landed, although in the sky the prehistoric scenes were still taking place. It was ending, and good too. I laid awake until the ultra-caffeine effect of the peyote - because that's one of its features, it keeps you awake - died out. Francisco kept drinking the tea all night long. He had a strong mind. Tucked underneath a sleeping bag and warm blanket I closed Jabba The Hut's mouth and finally closed my eyes. Goodnight, father of the prehistoric past. It was nice adopting your persona. Surely next time I will fulfill my duty as safekeeper better.

...what a ride...

Social awareness and sleeping with spiders

Last Saturday I arrived in San Luis Potosi, and this time my host is a 22-year-old fellow called Francisco. At first it appeared to me that Francisco belonged to an upper middle class, based on his car and house. In fact, my observance was correct. The thing is, he doesn't show the slightest form of elitism or scorn towards lesser privileged which one would expect to accompany that social status. On the contrary, on Sunday when he showed me the cozy center of the city he also showed me the two extremes of the social ladder. First we drove up to the most privileged, uptown neighbourhood. Its houses and apartment buildings were just popping out of the ground in an attempt to lure more financially strong families. Around it lied the obligatory golf course/country club and Mexico's most prestigious university El Tec de Monterrey, where only one semester costs an average of 60,000 pesos, the equivalent of 3,501 EUR. I guess that price helps to picture from which social class the students come from. One thing I noticed of that neighbourhood was that it beamed absolutely nothing Mexican. Instead, one has the feeling he wanders through American uptown streets where only the people's skin and occasional VW Beetle reveal its Mexicaness. Other than that, the lifeless, sterile ambient of the houses and streets emit both a shivering and estranging feeling that ostracizes everyone who does not fit its privileged cocoon. Afterwards we continued to the less wealthy parts of town, only about ten minutes away by car. Francisco informed that there are three of such neighbourhoods, the second and third one each time less favoured that the previous one. The change was quite shocking. Although the people there don't really miss the essential - i.e. housing, running water, medical care, etc.- the overall picture is more than obvious. In the most desolated vicinity houses were no bigger than a small garage with rents floating around 100 EUR monthly, various streets remained still unpaved and garbage is collected by horse-pulled carriages. Sometimes it even felt like the country since some families herd cattle or grow corn. At random corners of the street there were groups of youngsters and adults passing around the pipe or waiting for customers to buy 'groceries'. As much as I liked to walk through its streets, I refrained from doing so out fear of being mugged or something. My host had done so, albeit by bike. Even taking out my camera made me feel uncomfortable, maybe more than the people on the streets. At some point we even drove through some streets were reportedly the drug-trafficking gangs Los Zetas and El Cartel Del Golfo fight out a bloody war without interference of cops nor army. Unfortunately I didn't get to see some of the 'action' so I could recount it to you. But maybe it's better like that. I wouldn't like to receive a lost-flown bullet in the head. After the guided tour through both extremes of the city came the expected return to the safe haven of my host's neighbourhood. That switch from one extreme to another always confuses my mind.

And now for something completely different...

This week I took the opportunity to explore the nearby nature only an hour away from the city by car. Francisco willingly lend me his tent and backpack to go out. He recommended me a little ranch called El Valle De Los Fantasmas (The Valley Of The Ghosts) as a reference point for outdoor exploring. I took the opportunity to start learning how to hitchhike, something I've ousted out fear, unpreparedness or just pure laziness. Since on this trip the bus rides have been eating a fair amount out of my budget, I'll have to find other ways to get around, of which hitchhiking is logical solution. Tuesday morning, after having bought some food for the camping trip, I walked to the gas station nearest to highway 70, which led to that little ranch. I decided to man up and, like a good friend of mine who's very good at it, harass everyone who crosses my path. That wasn't easy though, since I can get pretty shy at times. 'Fuck it!', I thought. I need to get to that ranch. After an hour and a half my attempts had still been futile, until a friendly man drives up to me, lowers his window and asks me where I'm heading to. The joy of finally hitching a ride compensates for the burden of waiting and confronting unkind people. That switch from boring motionlessness to rapid floating over the road with the wind blowing through the hair is a great feeling. 'Road seet road', fuck yeah! I struck up conversation with the people inside the car: the man, his wife and brother-in-law. I guess the lady liked me because when we got to the destination, she gave me a 50 pesos note (3 EUR), just like that. I was happily surprised. Not only did they give me a ride, they even aided me financially. I could hardly believe it. Her words were: "Take it. And if you don't use it you can take it to Belgium and show it to your friends." Then she send me the typical 'may God accompany you'-phrase and drove off. What a start...

Francisco had given loads of directions and tips for this trip. All in vain. I started walking through that little ranch and found out that it was all private land. By several locals I asked for such references as a giant Jebus cross, a cave, a river, etc. All of which the people had never heard of. So I walked back to the ranch's entrance and turned around a rock formation. In other words, I

continued in a parallel line alongside the ranch. That wasn't easy, though. Barbed wire, steep rocks and dense vegetation complicated my passage, although the scenery was absolutely worth it. Eventually I ended up in someone's private territory, the same one I had encountered while walking through the ranch just half an hour before. Frustrated, I returned a second time to the entrance. There I asked some people about a giant Jebus cross and sent me back in the direction of the city. Without knowing what to do or where to go to, I followed their advice. About an hour and a half later, I still didn't find no damn cross. The sun was laying down, so my priority was to find a nice place to camp out. When I finally found one, I discovered to my frustration that the place was loaded with spiders. Now, they weren't particularly venomous I guess - they consisted of no more than a head and legs - but I if there's one thing that frightens me it's those fucking spiders. At nighttime, when I was busy making a fire I would regularly turn on my headlamp to check on those little, cheeky bastards. And really, they were literally attacking my fortress! For some reason they felt attracted to me, because every five minutes or so they were approaching in groups of two to four. Some even made it into my tent and that drove me insane. So for a great deal of the night I spend squashing those eight-legged creatures with a stick. I'll admit I squeaked a time or two whenever one was too close to me. Other than my arachnophobia, I had a wonderful Day of the Dead, since it was November 2nd. I kind of wished I had celebrated Dia de Muertos with crazy Mexicans all dressed up like frenzy, sombrero-wearing skeletons and loads of tequila and firecrackers. Maybe another time...

The next day my objective was to find drinkable water. This idiot namely had brought only a 800 ml drinking bottle for three days. If you take into account that a body needs a minimum of one liter of water a day, and that I was exercising more than average, my water storage was far from sufficient. The first day that had come to my notice, so I tried to drink tiny little sips to quench the thirst. That was pretty hard, really. It takes a strong mind not to think of fresh water when one's throat is drying out. The second day it went easier. It feels like the body adapts quickly to less, in terms of water and food. Anyway, the second day I walked for about two hours, or a bit more, when I finally found another little ranch in the middle of desert land called El Xoconostle. In just a couple of hours hiking, I had seen the landscape switch from lush green fields to arid cactus-filled land. Upon arriving a little girl asks me instantly what I was selling. She probably thought I was vendor of some kind. I inquired her after a shop were water is sold. Since she was still little, she didn't quite get my question. She was adorable. After a few attempts she pointed me the way. Oh, something I have to mention off topic. Here's a fun generalization: Mexicans suck, no, they absolutely fail hardcore when it comes to giving directions. Really. When I ask for the location of whatever, I usually receive as an answer the following directions: "Right over there, sir. Just right there.", "Oh, you go left and you'll see it. Just left.", "Here, here, it's close.", "It's about in that direction more or less. Yeah, in that direction." When I ask them for more specific details they just repeat what they just said but with the words placed in a different order. Quite frustrating at times, I tell you... Anyway, the girl pointed me out and obviously I didn't find it. I had to ask another lady who sent one of her sons or grandchildren to me to show me the way. I had to open a random door that led to a parcel with several families living together in two or three houses. Completely confused I approach a man who's feeding his chickens unenthusiastically together with his wife. With little words he leads me up the a house wherein supposedly a little store is located. Then, through the window a young woman in her thirties appears and asks me what I want. Full of relieve, I ask her for a bottle of water which she didn't have. That sucked monkey balls. All that effort to discover she only sold disgusting, carbonated beverages that only increase your thirst. Overly desperate, I bought a little bottle of apple soda. It tasted okay, but the feeling of lavishing liquid streaming over your tongue and through your throat after it had almost dried up was even more fulfilling. Continuing towards the ranch, to my dismay, I found a better displayed shop. However, the old lady also didn't sell water. Those Mexicans are addicted to soda, really. It's official. According to recent reports Mexico has caught up with the U.S. on daily consumption of carbonated soft drinks. Way to go, lads! But the old lady clearly saw me longing for water and offered me a whole jug for free. I offered to pay but she declined. So in return I stayed for a while talking with her and another local guy who was just hanging out there. The already typical I'm-from-Belgium-what?-where?-conversation emerged. I'm having a blast asking people for its existence. However, those two didn't surpass the ignorance of the two guys I met in Creel. The comical feel of the conversation faded however, when the guy started talking about how he and his cousin cross the Mexican-American border in search of better-paid jobs. Apparently, they travel first to Tijuana where from there they walk five to seven days to enter illegally the U.S. Hardness was painted in his face, but with a touch of humour, tough. The most striking part of his tellings was that he even in his own country is denigrated. Once, when he wanted to take the plane from San Luis Potosi to Tijuana custom patrols didn't believe he was Mexican even though he carried a genuine ID and the works (According to him there are a lot of immigrant Hondurans in this state). Not until they made him sing the national anthem did those assholes at the airport let him through. What a shame. I felt heart-struck when he told about it. He ended that sad anecdote with happy, hopeful comment: "Mejor comer toda la vida frijolitos con la familia." (Better eating your whole life beans with the family) He sure was a ranchero, alright.

The sun was setting again, so a new place to camp out was necessary. The fields around me didn't feel very inviting: sealed of with aggressive barbed-wire, filled with stinging nopales and cacti. Eventually I found a half constructed little house close to some kind of factory. It had the very essential: a roof and four walls. I decided to spend the night in there, relieving myself from setting up the tent. There wasn't much wood to burn, but I burned whatever I found in the surroundings. As I had expected, at one point a man walks in and asks me what I was doing. He was on of the owners of the private territory I was in. I explained to him my situation and he friendly let me stay in the house. Although, he warned that he was 'one of the good guys' and his colleague 'a son of bitch'. He would surely kick me out without mercy. Jezus... I played the role of the scared, yet grateful bum and promised him to leave as early as sunrise. The next day in fact he returned to kick me out, but still remaining friendly. The nightfall colouring the the landscape was magnificent. The desert's colours change slowly until only blackness fills the night with stars as light bulbs and the distant orange-ish glow of the city lights. At both sides of the house, also in the distance, a handful of lanterns illuminated the few houses around. It is such darkness that is not found anymore in brightly coloured cities.

The third day (I'll keep this one short) I intended to walk from El Xoconostle all the way back to the city. I don't how many kilometers that is - that ranch doesn't even appear on Google Maps - but I do know that Valle de los Fantasmas is located about 50 km from San Luis Potosi. I quit walking at the last 10 km or so out of tiredness, and again out of thirst. So my guess is that I walked more or less 40 km in three days. For me, that's a pretty huge achievement. It was also very meditating in a way. Only were my mind-wandering thoughts occasionally disturbed by passing by idiots who felt the need to honk their horn whenever they saw me. And those were a lot. I wonder what they thought. "Hey, look a guy with a backpack!", "Haha, look at that sucker", or maybe they mistook me for a girl since I have extremely long hair (???) and tried to catch my attention. I've seen a lot of losers do that. Those poor pretty girls... Anyhow, when I was at the last 10 km I decided, even better, my thirst decided to grab the first bus to the center. It's interesting how basic human needs can drive someone. It takes a strong mind to manage them.