Off to the roots and FURTHUR down...

Blossoming with a head start to Spring in Escondido

2011-07-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

... into the sun behind the horizon of the ocean.

Prologue

Back in October when I was in Monterrey, at the mere commencement of my voyage, I was recommended this particular part of southern Mexico in the state Oaxaca. It was called Puerto Escondido, 'Hidden Port', with several interesting beaches to hang out in. Descriptions such as 'hippy resort', 'laid-back', 'ganja paradise', 'cheap accommodation' and 'mass tourism free' contributed to my image of Mazunte. During my whole trip I picked up comments and recommendations from several people, arousing my interest in that mysterious beach town. So finally, after months of trotting Mexico's inland I would explore some of the country's most beautiful beaches. In San Jose del Pacifico I took another Suburban to Pochutla, the biggest town near Mazunte. The road was equally curvy as before, with astonishing landscapes and an interesting change of vegetation and climate. I could feel it in the air that I was heading towards water.

For accommodation I once again consulted Couchsurfing. To my surprise there was one couchsurfer in Mazunte (not bad for a population of about a 1000). His name is Pete, a 5o-year old yogi from the U.K., who accepted my request. He would later become a very important character in the story.

When I arrived to Pochutla it was already late and the colectivos had stopped circulating. I was forced to take a private cab since Mazunte is still about half an hour away and I had an 'appointment' with Pete. I was fearing that I'd end up in another random hotel room. The cab driver wanted to charge me a 100 pesos (= 6 EUR), so I said 'fuck it'. Pete's place was located somewhere slightly out of the ordinary: he resided at a yoga center where he had parked his RV, painted with colours and shapes reminiscent of sixties' heydays, with which he had been traveling for almost two years. As the taxi drove through Pochutla a different lifestyle, clothing habits and energy came across. At least, so I felt the change from inland to coastland. Suddenly I saw palmtrees, hammocks and women in short shorts. The latter I had rarely witnessed in male chauvinist, sexually repressed, prudish Mexico. And there not feminist ideals cause that change in apparel, but rather the pressuring hot-humid climate. Either way, I have to admit I enjoyed said tendency.

Continuing the cab ride, around 21:00-21:30 I finally arrived to the yoga center. I went up and what I found was a group of people chatting and playing percussion instruments underneath a small concrete dome with a very enjoyable decorative arrangement. I felt instantly comfortable, even though I'd just just walked into a totally strange environment. Luckily, Pete was still around. We conversed quickly after which he disappeared. So, I started socializing with the others who were around. What followed in the following hours, days and weeks was pure magic. All of a sudden I started meeting a whole lot of new people in a very short period of time. Those days were filled with anthropic dynamics of high intensity.

How it all started

One week had passed and I found myself still at the yoga center. Let me tell you when I had planned on going to Mazunte, I figured that I'd only stay for three, four days hanging out on the beach zoning out on ganja and simply relax. Quickly I learned that would not be the case. Of course, the aforementioned was also included in my experience, but it did not constitute exclusively. I started meeting a large amount of people in a very short time and it amazed me how easily people there would open their hearts and talk to you as if you had been long time friends. Somehow during that first week I stumbled into a clique of yoga students with whom I shared a number of wonderful moments that are sealed permanently in my memory. For instance, one day we walked to a tiny, bay-ish beach behind Punta Cometa, Mexico's most outstretched rock formation of the Pacific. To start with we were given the the beautiful gift of seeing a whale's tail crashing into the water, something I had never witnessed before. At that secluded beach we improvised a drum circle, played with the waves while the sun set down, held long, intense ganja conversations, elevated in an ohm meditation and gazed at the stars. During the whole time I tried to cease that moment as much as possible, to suck out all the marrow of that very instant, because I knew I was experiencing a true apogee. For a moment I thought that it couldn't get any better, but I was wrong. I was merely at the beginning of a wonderful journey that didn't seem to know any lows.

The reason why I experienced that first week so intensely was because I coincided with the last week of their yoga course. I had arrived at a moment when the students were filled with love and excitement. Some were going away, others stayed, cliques dissolved. And in spite of those social circles, at no point I felt excluded. Their open-heartedness made me feel I was part of their energy. That level of openness was truly inspiring, not to mention unprecedented. After most of the aspiring yogis left, I stuck around for another week. Suddenly the place was 'filled' with a major vacuum: the staff had disappeared or was on a break and only a few people remained. Also, by then my CS host Pete had left with his RV. With no one around questioning my presence and/or duty, I managed to find myself useful working in the kitchen, cleaning yoga mats and helping two hired masons building a new sewage disposal system. For this I was not alone, however. Suddenly (my apologies, I will use this word frequently) a 'crew' was formed comprising four members: Verdu - an eccentric Argentinian artisan who resembles very much to surrealist painter Dali because of his mustachio, Cristian - a Mexican young all-rounder who likes to occupy himself with anything ranging from teaching Spanish to selling home-baked pies, and Pier-Luc - a fiery ex-nationalist Quebecois turned stoic tolerant pacifist. Us four for some unexplained reason came together and kept ourselves busy with everyday tasks at the yoga center while no one actually required us to do so. This funny set of circumstances led to a beautiful micro working community where ideas, inspiration and friendship were exchanged.

During the second week I was still convinced that I would pick up my backpack quickly and proceed my way southwards. Verdu kept on trying to make me find a genuine reason to leave a place such as Mazunte. 'Making it all the way down to Buenos Aires', was my regular but mostly cloudy excuse. Until one day I finally came to the realization that I had been trapped in the town's addicting energy to which so many other travelers had succumbed to. After serving at the yoga center I went into town to find some inspiration on the six-string in front of the main beach El Rinconcito, 'The Little Corner'. I sat their practicing some compositions, a few bystanders listening with a smile, when all of sudden a dreadlocked accordionist wearing only a gamchha - a cotton towel from India - sits down by my side and listens attentively to what I'm playing. His friend with similar hairstyle follows with the clarinet. Then a crazy Canadian who I'd met before joins in with some Jethro Tull-style flute solos. A second clarinetist of French origin expands the impromptu orchestra. In a matter of minutes a group of musicians had come together to jam aloud while around them jugglers performed their complex tricks, which successively attracted more curious people. All of this happened without prior planning, although it seemed like a well-reahearsed performance with every character having a designated part. It was a pure explosive, instantaneous spur-of-the-moment loaded with thrilling synchronicity. A clear example of how energetic such extemporaneous gatherings can be. It's not surprising that I was overwhelmed with amazement. And that's not all. After we had finished an improvised tune, a Californian lady clearly impressed by the energy addressed us enthusiastically: 'That's amazing, you guys! Do you wanna play concert in our bar, like this Friday? We can pay you a small amount and dinner.' Suddenly out of that afternoon jam session a band was formed with a first gig scheduled in two days. At the end of the day I knew for sure, without doubt, that I would stay in Mazunte for an indefinite period of time. Just as many days in that curious, little coastal town, it was not a good day to leave. Oh, how wonderful the turns of life...

Building up a small life

Meanwhile, while those crazy moments took place, I had left the yoga center and found temporary accommodation at Cristian's place, who had left for Mexico City for a couple of days. While I expected to take some time alone to write and play the guitar by myself, I was met with a different situation. The landlady Doña Frida for some strange reason treated me like her grandchild/assistant right from the start. She asked me to rake the fallen leaves into a pile, go buy groceries for my lunch, clean out the bathroom, etc. She would not tell, nor offer, but order me to have a cup coffee, sit down and eat, wash my hands and so on. I didn't feel bothered at all, but rather I was amused by her peculiar kind of hospitality. Later on I would understand why she was all concerning despite the fact I stayed only for a couple of days. She lived her days lonely most of time, always trying to keep herself busy with something. Rarely she would receive visits from friends or family, according to the rumours because she had a difficult personality. On some days, when coming home late I'd find her sitting in the dark of the kitchen listening to the radio, leaning her head on her palm as in a contemplating posture. Besides that being scary, it was also very saddening. As Rolling Stones' Mick Jagger sang in 'Mother's Little Helper': 'What a drag it is getting old'.

Since I had accepted the fact that I would stay longer than planned, I was in need of finding a fixed place to stay, preferably in exchange for labour. It didn't take long time to find what I was looking for. In fact, I was extremely lucky. One day while walking over the main avenue I bumped into Louisa at a restaurant. She was a 27-year old German single mom with seven years of traveling behind her who I had made acquaintance with. Upon telling her about my search she immediately offered to help out. She took me to the hostel where she was staying, called Posada Porfiria, and introduced me to Carmen, the person in charge and a very fine lady. She redirected me to the hostel's owner, 87-year old Doña Porfiria. I went up to her to ask if I could offer my hands in exchange for accommodation. At first, and she remained like this most of the time, she looked at me with great distrust. One of her questions including the job application was: 'Do you have the notion to fall into vice?' I answered that I had tried some things in the past but eventually I only liked to drink a couple of beers once in a while, which on occasion would result in abuse. Since getting drunk and the whole culture around it is generally accepted by westernized societies, as it is in Mexican society, she accepted my request. I was allowed to stay at the hostel's campsite but emphasized that I shouldn't expect any meals. And although back then I wasn't traveling with tent or hammock, several people had offered me theirs. Perfect! I was ready to settle down for a little while, and for all of this I had received a lot of help of people with great hearts. It was amazing how the people around me, having just barely met, were willing to give a hand on any occasion. The more I was conscious of this flow of energy, the more I realized I had simply arrived to the 'right spot' on this trip. 'A place to rest my bones', put dramatically.

By then that last-minute gig was coming up. The members of the band were Finn from Germany (accordion), Kansia from Wales (clarinet), Melchior from France (clarinet), Trevor from Canada (flute) and me on the guitar. This crossover of nationalities gave birth to a sound which could be categorized as balkan, Eastern European, French folkloric, jazzy, Arabic, all-round traditional music. A potpourri of different genres with main objective: getting the hips in motion. We baptized our collective Manouche De Mermejita. Manouche refers to the gypsy jazz genre, while the name Mermejita is taken from a widespread, secluded beach behind Punta Cometa where we would rehearse most of the time. Actually we only rehearsed about seven songs in one afternoon, the same day we were due to play. Right before the gig we skimmed a couple of restaurants, which served as rehearsal and extra money-income. Besides that, for me it was the first time I played in said locations. Eventually it was time to perform at the Colibri, the bar where we were invited to play. The gig was a success. With the little time we practiced we managed to fill an hour and a half. Starting out with a crowd of friends and a few people who had received our flyer, the bar ended up jam-packed with loads of people standing outside watching. It was beautiful to watch them dance, shout and sing along frantically. It seemed like our show was Mazunte's only nocturnal activity. Although that's not unsurprising considering the centric location of the bar and the town's small size, where inside the foreigners' community word goes around quickly.

After the whole event I tried to understand what was happening. I wasn't simply touristing around as I had done so much before arriving at Mazunte, rather I was discovering a new form of traveling. Especially the people of the international circle proved to be very inspiring for me. This idea popped into my mind that, if the right people are present in the same place, at the same time, magic occurs. As if the encounters between certain characters were written in the stars or resulted as an effect of a specific constellation. It could even be interpreted as an example of the law of attraction. Anyhow, I felt my presence was synchronized in time and place, almost perfectly intertwined with others' frequencies.

A night at the circus

The folk band project eventually didn't last that long, since all of the members were travelers with each their own route. We played about four concerts in total. On one occasion someone who had seen us perform hired us to provide musical accompaniment for a marriage proposal, which is perhaps the most beautiful event I've been hired to play for. Imagine this: a table set for two with candlelight allover, on the beach under a star-studded sky and Manouche De Mermejita filling up the silence with subtle melodies. She said 'yes'. While we played some friends came over to watch who eventually participated with the show. Gradually our decorative function in the background turned into a more participative, energetic show wherein the couple joyfully danced along. Two girls who had come to watch us even put up a humourous mimical show for them. The evening ended with smiles on everybody's faces. Without doubt, musicianship is one of most beautiful professions around. Is it not nice making people happy and being paid for it? At least, I can come up with more jobs that create frustration, depression and other negative feelings.

During the third, fourth week or so Mazunte hosted its first contemporary circus meeting that offered daily acts and other activities a weeklong. The town was filled with artists of all kinds who would come together in a tiny plaza near the main beach to rehearse. During that week it exchanged its tranquility for a more dynamic energy. For a moment the international community had taken over the streets. In the meeting's agenda was also scheduled Manouche De Mermejita's last show with all original members (Trevor, the Canadian flutist, had already left the band to follow the umpteenth love of his life. They both eventually returned after their romance at short notice came to an end. The girl stuck around for some time, while Trevor returned broke to his homeland to start a beekeeping project with his sister). Our show was scheduled after a solo act in a pizzeria. Although technically it wasn't our best performance, it was definitely the most memorable. The whole scene with the band playing, people dancing freely, the restaurant's decoration had seemed to be taken from an Emir Kusturica movie. Wreaths of silk, trapezists and firebreathers would have made it a real night at the circus.

But the band kept playing. Although the pizzeria gig was the last one meaning the end of Manouche De Mermejita's short-lived career, a new proposal was about to reveil itself. One evening, sitting outside a corner store next to Pete with a fresh machete cut in my right big toe an appealing Quebecois/Canadian lady came up to me asking whether I was interested in joining her band to occupy the position of bass player. Mélanie said the original bassist was about to become a father and consequently couldn't fulfill his duty. After a few minutes talking about the subject it became clear that it wasn't just a fun, pass-time jamproject. The idea was to perform as much as possible especially during high season so to earn a little bit of money. Since all band members were travelers in one way or another that didn't seem like a bad idea. So, a few days later in an impulsive sway I acquired a cheap bass guitar and my time with Son De Mezcal could begin. The two months that followed we played at bars and restaurants in and around Mazunte, thereby gathering a couple of tell-worthy anecdotes. I was floating in a dreamlike reality. At first I found it hard to grasp the idea that I was actually combining two of my greatest passions: making music and traveling. In fact, before I undertook this intrepid journey I often dreamt of being hired as a musician in a traveling band. I could hardly believe that my dream then was becoming real. That's one of the reasons too why I decided to stick around a little longer. Because I knew, when Mélanie fired that proposal at me, that I couldn't ignore what life was presenting me what I had wished for. I was starting to believe that some dreams eventually do come out, but often elapse unnoticed.

Founder and undisputable leader of the band Mélanie discovered while traveling with a friend through Mexico that there were some artistic opportunities in Mazunte. She proved her organizing skills by forming the band after a spontaneous jam in the Colibri and scheduling a week-long agenda of performances. Those events took place in January, when I hadn't yet arrived to town. The idea was to continue the project in the months of March and April with all original participants. Eventually only Julian, the Argentinian drummer and soon-to-be lover of Mélanie, and Pablo, the Mexican lead guitarist and aficionado of hallucinogenics, stayed to realize Mélanie's project. The music isn't easily categorizable. The initial idea was to play mostly originals and a couple of covers, but eventually turned out vice versa. Our setlist consisted of danceable hits from the sixties till now and a few originals by Mélanie's hand. Blues, rock, reggae, afrobeat, funk, folk, pop, son cubano, soul, cumbia... Again a potpourri. Generally I'm not fond of playing versions of other artists' songs, but then I did not seem to mind. My duty was to extract juicy grooves and stay in line with Julian. Besides that, observing people dance was the second most fun part of the performance. No, not fun, but a true delight! How lovely it is to see a fossil loosen its hips and eventually setting aside his pudor, couples swinging sensually to latin grooves, solo dancers moving erratically all over the place or the flirting of lovebirds who disappear in the night or reject eachother as poles apart. Ah yes, music and dance are one of those things that bring people together and make them forget their worries.

Somewhere in the beginning of April Son de Mezcal was coming to an end. High season had just come to an end and everyone continued with their respective routes. Pablo stayed in Mazunte with his Argentinian girlfriend to help his friends with the construction of a beach house - the original reason why he had come here. Mélanie and Julian had plans on going to Quebec together and I, felt the need to start walking again. Many of the 'gang' had already left, with only a couple of travelers installing themselves as residents. Three months had passed, suddenly, in that little coastal town. Three days of relaxing on the beach turned into three months of intense living. What I learned during that period is of invaluable importance, as are the moments shared with other people. Often I would say to myself: 'These are the days of our lives', 'These are the best of times' or similar euphoric catch phrases. Without doubt, the Mazunte chapter is one of most enjoyable, intense-lived experiences of the trip, which I recall far too often when I float in memories of last year's events.

But, the wind blew southwards to San Cristobal De Las Casas, the next route loyal stop on the road where eventually I met the same people. And that's interesting because a certain number of people moving over the same line creates connectivity.

Dialogue with our mother's skyscrapers

2011-07-09T16:23:00.001-07:00

...and dive from the mountain...

I was told there was a little mountain village called San Jose del Pacifico on the way to the Pacific coast coming from Oaxaca. It's known for its staggering landscapes but most of all, it is known in travelers' circles as a mushroom hotspot. The Swiss guy from the eco-hostel in Lake Catemaco, Veracruz, had informed me that when he went there even little kids looked for strangers to offer them a portion of magic mushrooms. With that romantic image of easy accessibility I hopped on a Suburban (sort of a station wagon) to San Jose. Now, very often there seems to be something worth mentioning concerning the transportation from one point to another. These suburbans can fit, following the Latin American cram-up procedure, about 15 passengers. But that's not the major problem. The one-lane road consists of an eternal follow-up of nausea inducing curves past mountain flanks. Because of the vehicle's constant swinging motion there's not much you can do. I witnessed how quite a ew passengers pass their trip fighting that nauseating feeling aided with emergency plastic bags. Luckily I'm not too sensitive to intense motion and could I enjoy the amazing scenery of the Oaxacan sierra (mountain range) from out of my passenger-seat. Oh, of course! How could I forget? For some reason I've discovered that in this universe with all its constellations my person attracts the craziest, most bizarre and degenerate characters. I can't remember exactly his nomen, something like Jaibe. Let's call him that. Jaibe was seated in the back next to me in that Suburban destination San Jose del Pacifico. As I usually do, I asked this stranger how long more or less it would take to get there, just to be sure. 'About two-and-a-half, three hours', he replied. Quickly after: 'Aha, San Jose, hey? Mushrooms!' We started talking relaxedly, but soon I discovered he was a total maniac and he took over the conversation with astonishing dominance. The man was firing up, going completely berserk, as if he were declaiming a grand tragedy before a huge crowd. Eventually, his impassioned tirade took up absurdist proportions that caused more embarrassment by the other passengers than by himself. False, he knew no shame at all. After a while I'd just nod and occasionally repeat key words from his speech. What did he talk about all that time? Firstly, about his job as head-waiter in what he claims to be the best club of Oaxaca. Then, about his evangelistic wife and newly-born daughter. How he cheats on her with the hottest looking ladies that visit said club. His past as a member of the Mara Salvatrucha gang in Honduras. The bible classes he receives from his mother-in-law every wednesday. His preference for any kind of drugs and alcohol. The tragic fatal motorcycle-accident of his beloved friend, who's spirit he addressed with a loud, thundering voice inside the car (just imagine the reactions in the passengers' faces). How he fixes the best fish and seafood from the fishermen of the tiny town where he resides in exchange for pills, herbs and other snortables. The day his townsfolk supposedly wanted him to be major and how he proudly declined the offer of the common people. And so on and so on. Each one of those topics he related with much grandeur. Exaggerated, totally over-the-top, insane. Jaibe was a high-speed train out of control. Forcing the chauffeur to wait a bit longer during a pit stop so that we can chug a beer in less than a minute in a nearby bar, exemplifies his ultra extroverted personality. Finally, we split ways in San Jose del Pacifico. The last image I have of this odd character is of him with his head out of the window while driving off, shouting: 'Long live Belgium, my friend! Don't forget me: Jaibe! The best club in Oaxaca! Man!!!'. And so, this kind but slightly frantic fellow passenger disappeared with his shoutings succumbing to the Doppler effect. 'Why do I always attract those types?', I thought standing there at the side of the road. Well, at least that was a most entertaining trip.

It was already past five in the afternoon, so I didn't bother scanning the town for the cheapest accommodation and went for the first one I found. That's an example of my laziness that sometimes costs me a bit more money. I only stayed for a day and half in that charming little mountain community. I didn't find any mushrooms, unfortunately. I didn't really ask for it, either. I felt a bit embarrassed with the idea of going around asking for hongos. Honestly, I was kind of hoping it would come to me universally provided as did the peyote. For that to happen I should have stayed longer. That way other people's paths would have crossed with mine, and that's how magic starts working. So, instead finding the gateway to another dimension I simply hiked through a mountain pass. And man, how amazing it is to be immersed in the beauty of Mother Earth's hip joints. Walking for hours and then suddenly hear the subtle sound of a river's rippling water, that grows louder and more impressive with each step closer to the riverbank. Then actually seeing the stream and touching the cool, refreshing water is like discovering a hidden treasure, except it's always been there. Without doubt, I'm a mountain. Or at least I feel like a mountain, I feel connected to them. When I stand on top, I feel I'm at my place. This is no justification for any kind of blown-up grandiosity, but rather a manifestation of my love for these earthly skyscrapers.

I was totally convinced of my monogamic connection with the mountains, until the next day I took another Suburban towards Mazunte, a tiny coastal town at the Pacific Ocean. My chapter there is a booklong, and so far the one I enjoy telling the most. So that's why I'll dedicate a post on Mazunte alone because it deserves a complete exposition, at least I opine.

Digging into the past (continued)

2011-07-09T15:00:00.000-07:00

Run-up on pavement...

Next stop after Veracruz was Oaxaca (wah-ha-cah), the capital of the state of Oaxaca. A beautiful colonial city where the heritage of the Spanish conquest and French occupation is visible in its architecture, arts and people. A very pleasant city to walk through. The first thing I noticed, however, was the huge presence of foreigners. Before arriving to the city I had rarely met fellow travelers firstly because of the Couchsurfing project, secondly because I visited unpopular Lonely Planet destinations. Oaxaca was definitely a LP highlight. It was strange to see so many güeros (caucasians) all of a sudden. It became to clear to me why Mexicans love to make fun of light-skinned, blond-haired people: they do in fact look funny. And this is without offensive connotation; I've discovered that I myself am subject to mockery coming mainly from Mexicans. Anyway, I wasn't sure whether I felt comfortable being around a tourist hotspot. I guess that's a detail one as a traveler has to accept in popular destinations that are actually worth visiting.

My host Pedro lived about 12 kilometers from town, which means I had to take one of those collective cabs to go to-and-fro. Those weren't vans but regular four-passenger cars. Generally they cram up to six people inside: two in front (that explains the little cushion between both front seats) and four in the back. That goes fine, unless some of your fellow passengers are slightly overweight. Now, Pedro is the kind of Mexican who's had the opportunity to travel elsewhere than the U.S., which has given him a broader perspective on cultural differences, etc. Also, he is a fiery Couchsurfer. Each weekend he converts his house into a CS hostel by trying to host as many travelers as possible (I hadn't thought of doing that actually. Usually CS hosts only allow a couple of people in, but he sees things bigger.). So, that means he receives a lot different nationalities and personalities each with their own habits, ideologies and so on. Therefor he can relativize his own culture and put it in a broader perspective. With other words, he likes to criticize with touch of humour the 'Mexican way', e.g. machismo, collective ignorance, government,... In fact, that's yet another thing I've noticed mostly with educated people (and with less educated too. They're at least aware that there's a few remarkable flaws in Mexico generally speaking.).

At the time I was staying at his house a total of eight travelers inhabited temporarily his dwelling. Two French couples, a German couple, a Spaniard/American and me. That created an interesting dynamic. I mainly hung out with the last mentioned: Fernando. He was quite an interesting character. I don't recall from what city he started, my guess is New York. He had been covering that whole distance on motorbike. He had left behind about a year and a half of wandering and was headed - like me - down south. This man, a disillusioned architect in another life, dedicates his life to explore the Latin American continent. Meanwhile, he tries to visit his family in Spain at least once a year, preferably twice. Then I remember vaguely something about returning to the U.S. to buy or construct a catamaran and sail to a South American country. There he would give up his vessel and buy a lama to hike on it through the entire Andes. Pretty amazing if you ask me, and an inspiration. Furthermore, since he's an offspring of mixed parents like me, I could identify myself with him. At the time I was still struggling with the futile recognition and acceptance of my Mexican half. Maybe it was a minor identity crisis of some sort. I didn't suffer from it up to psychiatric proportions, but it did fill my head with bothersome thoughts. He too had lived a similar experience and now he had found peace with himself, accepting the limbo he hovers in. Undoubtedly he was an enjoyable companion. Another and last example thereof is the day we played soccer with the neighbourhood kids. We had returned to Pedro's house from touristing in town. Outside were a couple of kids messing around with a ball. Fernando felt like joining in, while I wasn't too keen on it. He explained to me that soccer is the one thing that brings together people no matter their nationality, colour, style, age, ideology and so on. He had a point right there. Soccer does have a uniting power despite its horribly aggressive and heavily ideology-charged border-culture. So he, a giant blond long-haired güero, went up to the kids and proposed a match. To my surprise, in a matter of minutes two teams with kids from all over the neighbourhood - and us - were formed and the game was on. I hadn't done considerably much exercise on this trip so I had my heart beating at the back of my mouth, but the effects of that little game of soccer were remarkable. Fernando walked off, having reached the limit of his energy (sickness nailed him), while I stayed talking to the kids. That was cultural interchange right there. Eventually they invited us for another game of soccer the next day but we couldn't make it. I believe I visited the archeological site Monte Alban then. Apropos, there occurred an interesting anecdote too worth sharing.

To start off, during the time of the event I was still in belief that I could make Mexicans accept me as one of their own. That stubborn martyrdom came to an end tragically that day I visited Monte Alban. In Mexico on Sundays citizens are allowed free entrance to any archeological site anywhere in the republic, while foreigners aren't - which I completely understand. To enter one simply has to show any kind of identification. In my case I would just have to show my passport to prove my citizenship. Of course, forgetful as I am, I left my passport at Pedro's home while I was already on my way to the site. 'Not a problem', I thought. I figured i'd just say that I'm from Guadalajara and that's it. At the ticket office I told the lady I'm Mexican but that I forgot my ID. She was understanding and asked from where I was visiting Oaxaca, to which I replied 'from Guadalajara'. 'Oh, how nice. Welcome, please proceed.' So far, so good. Although I was met with the final and deciding obstacle. The man who's in charge of ripping the acquired tickets to let the visitors in asked for mine. It went more or less like this:

- Douchebag: 'You're ticket, please.'

- Me: 'Oh, I don't need one. I'm a Mexican citizen.'

- D: 'What? Don't be stupid. You're not Mexican. You're like a Central American or something (mocking).'

- M:'No man. I'm from Guadalajara. Go ask the lady at the ticket office. She allowed me in.'

- D: 'What? Really?' (mumbles something unintelligible, obviously bothered)

The ticket man walks to the office and said:

- D: 'Did you let him in for free? Do you really think he looks Mexican?

- Lady: 'Well, ehm, yes. He told me he's from Guadalajara and I believed him.'

The douchebag continues to be suspicious and starts to involve bystanders into the impromptu trial, asking them the same enquiry. Also, supposedly the manager of the archeological site just happened to be present. Now, I don't know about the authenticity of his position, perhaps the douchebag was just trying to deter me. Meanwhile I heard people standing by deciding whether I was or I weren't. As you can imagine, this circus quickly turned into an utterly humiliating spectacle, ran by an individual who seemed to have made it his herculean final task before heaving his last sigh to reject my Mexican identity. As follows:

- D: 'Okay, do you think he looks Mexican?' (directing himself to bystanders)

- Bystander #1: 'Uhm, well, I guess so.'

- Bystander #2: 'No, not really.'

- Bystander #3: 'Yeah man, he looks like someone from Guadalajara.'

- D: 'Hey manager, look at this. He's claiming he's Mexican. What do you think?'

- Manager: 'So you say you're from Guadalajara, huh? Alright then, what's the capital of Guadalajara?'

On a side note, GDL doesn't have a capital. It's the capital of the state Jalisco. A very poor attempt to outsmart me. I reply that he is mistaken and that Guadalajara doesn't have capital. I don't remember what happened exactly afterwards, but the opposition was way too strong and by then I'd had enough of their humiliation. I ended up paying the 51 pesos (3 EUR) entrance fee. Don't get it wrongly, it wasn't about avoiding the fee. It was simply a test to see whether I could be convincing. That proved not to work. That minor incident at the entrance of Monte Alban ended for good my Via Dolorosa of futile attempts and more important provided a change of mentality. Once I got in, I took my time to meditate on what had just happened. Inside waged alteration, total dismay, discouragement. At rest was the last thing my mind was. Finally, sitting on top one of the temples outlooking the site which rests on a mountain plateau that guards over Oaxaca city, I came to the conclusion that people are idiots. Ha, well, I'd come to that conclusion before. What I mean to say more precisely is that only I know who I am and no one else. That's how simple it is. I can't be told what I am or what I'm not because those comments are based on individual perceptions, also called 'prejudices'. Especially in my case. I've had to endure people who think they know how I'm made and having them telling me what I am. Having split nationality implies being none of both, not being accepted a 100%. In country A you'll be told you're a B and vice versa. Those misinformed people will always remind you that you're not one of them. That I had lived on numerous occasions in Mexico. For a very long time I tried to keep up the battle, but the circus at the entrance of Monte Alban sealed off that period for good. From then on, I concluded, I would have to quit trying to make people clear who I am. One can only know one person well in his life, and that's oneself. Even so, sometimes we feel alienated from ourselves and we are incapable of knowing the self. Whatever the others claim you seem to be, unless they're more or less right, is total bullshit. Science can dissect a man's heart to learn how it works for educational purposes, but they cannot look inside it. So, from then on, I can say I've found peace with myself. I've learned to put myself above the ego and let it go. Wisdom comes not from others, it comes from inside. Only sometimes it needs to be instigated.

To end this quasi intellectual enclosure, I'll illustrate my conclusion with a phrase from the following poem by beat poet Allen Ginsberg, released posthumously:

It’s true I write about myself

Who else do I know so well?

For the full version click on: http://brechto.blogspot.com/2009/04/objective-subject.html

Picking up where we left off...

2011-07-08T04:53:00.000-07:00

'And so the week passed on with frightening intranscendence. Monday I said my goodbye to the family, the last ones I'll see on this trip. Now I'll be moving around in more southern areas, where I think I will feel more at home. We'll see.'

This last sentence of my last blogpost dates from January 26, more than five month ago. During that time I wrote absolutely nothing, as you can tell from the blog. What happened? Fuck, I don't know. Well, a lot of things. I myself find it hard to believe that I reduced my literary activity to zero. There's several reasons. For instance, I didn't always have a computer with internet at my disposal, and if I did have one I didn't always find the time to write comfortably, i.e. with seas of time. But most important of all, I think I was roaming deep down inside life's abdomen. Living at 300 km/h. Ceasing the day until there is no more left to cease. Too busy enjoying life. Too busy enjoying life? Fucking hell, when has that ever occurred to me? This has to be further explained, don't you think? On many occasions I truly wished to post an anecdote or two, but I got to the point where I felt that I would miss something - anything - if I would dedicate some time to this self-imposed obligation. It sounds slightly exaggerated, but that's more or less the reason why I have published no reports on my travel activities. Anyway, for those who have been waiting for a sign of life and for those who haven't - and I honestly don't care if you wouldn't - here's an update of what I've been doing the moment I left my family in Leon. Unfortunately, in reduced version. Too many details would make up a text with more words than the bible. Maybe one day I'll exhibit it in its entirety in an autobiography (ahum...). But for now, here's what happened:

Enchantment in Veracruz, Olmec turf

After I finished my last family stop in Leon I hopped on a bus to Xalapa, the capital of the state Veracruz. Geographically, the state lies in both central and southern Mexico which explains a change of climate and vegetation in comparison with the northern states. Lush green valleys, lakes and ponds, humidity allover,... Personally, I enjoyed this change of ambient after months of intense traveling in northern and central Mexico, where predominantly arid land colored the view from the many bus-trips I undertook. The desert and the culture linked to it was starting to wear a bit out on me. If I were to choose between cowboys and indians, I'd surely go for the red-skinned hunter/food-gatherers. But that beside the point. As I was telling, I first visited Xalapa, which for a capital feels like a very cozy city to walk through. Hilly narrow streets, colonial architecture, a surprisingly considerable presence of 'green',... All this covered with a layer of chipi chipi, a local term to describe drizzle. Rainfall is not my climatological atmosphere of choice, but in this city it gave it an enchanting air.

As accommodation I relied on my favorite website couchsurfing.org. My host was Sergio, a 26-year old student with an impeccable English accent and a dubious sense of humour. All in all I have to admit my experience with him had been rather neutral. When he was around he wouldn't be very much communicative and for some reason he felt the need to emphasize the age difference between us (Something quite a lot of people tend to do on this continent. 21 years seems to be at the same level as 12. Strange.). Notwithstanding, I got along quite well with his friends and family. And as you do or may no know, the key to be accepted into a household is the mother. If you manage to gain her almost son like sympathy, you're in. However, this may sound like a competition. But honestly I simply enjoy getting along with my friends' mothers.

As with most large cities in Mexico, its surrounding villages and countryside are often very charming. In vox populi there is a verb called pueblear which roughly means 'village-hopping'. City slickers accustom going to the country to escape the madness from their urban environment, mainly during weekends. That way, their mind is temporarily revitalized so to endure the multilevel pollution of their cemented habitat. For me, I just enjoy hopping from one habitat to another. I visited a couple of said locations around Xalapa such as Coatepec, where allegedly the state's best coffee is grown and produced. During the short amount of time I was there, I managed to drink the worse coffee I'd had in a long while. Choosing arbitrarily does not always result successful, I learned. Afterwards I did another town with an impressive collection of cascades called Texolo. When I arrived there it was already getting dark and absolutely no people where around. The tourist facilities around the waterfalls where completely deserted. On top of that a dense cloud of fog covered the whole area, giving it a haunting 'Silent Hill'-esque feel. It felt like walking around the movie-set of a thriller. This ambient made the sighting of the cascades very worthwhile.

Next stop was Veracruz, the state's homonymous city. Known as 'Mexico's gateway to the world', today it's still the country's most important port. Also historically, Veracruz enjoys a reputation thanks to a series of successful military actions. No less than four times did the harbour city receive and defeat foreign invaders. First the last of Spanish troops, than the French and twice the U.S. army. This piece of extraordinary self-defense granted the city with the decorative title 'Cuatro Veces Heroica Veracruz' (Four Times Heroic Veracruz). What I like most about it however, is its Caribbean, almost Cuban feel. The light-coloured garment, the music genres, the people's accent,... It's, again, a different Mexico. For a while I was freed from the gunslinging, American cowboy infested norteño culture from the north. Here you'll find darker-skinned, slow-paced, charmfully dancing coastfolk.

My Couchsurf host this time was Josué, a visual artist from Guatemala. An incredibly wise man, stoical at all times, with a subtle sense of pleasant humour. A true indigenous descendant. He was intrigued by my goofy attempt to explain Belgian politics and our, so far one-year exceeding, absence of government. In parenthesis, that's something many people have found hard to believe.

I was lucky to be in town during the weekend. From Friday till Sunday the historic center converts into a a small nocturnal festival with live music all over. In fact, there's at least one band playing every night somewhere in town. Locals and foreigners come together in huge numbers on plazas and squares to dance salsa, danzon, Cuban son and marimba. At nightfall those genres echo through the streets announcing it's time to find a dance partner and burn away a few calories through some very contagious footwork. The most pleasant part of all is to observe the wide range of ages participating in the Terpsichore: from young turtledoves to near fourth-aged couples. If the band's playing salsa or any other upbeat rhythm you'll see couples swaying elegantly, swinging their limbs vigorously with incredible compatibility, forging the male-female into a harmonious unison. Same with slower paces, but instead you'll see predominantly older couples whirl adagio, as if they were competing for the slowest. Nonetheless, it's a heartbreaking sight to watch two veteran lovers express their affection through the turtle dance. What a much better way to spend quality time together than sitting in front of the tube, don't you think?

Josué's partner Céline, from Bretagne (France), recommended me to go visit Lake Catemaco, in the same state a bit further south. I was first planning on going straight to Oaxaca, but Céline's description of the lake totally convinced me and so from one day to another I changed my itinerary. Apparently, there was some sort of an eco village - 'Bahía Escondida' - run by a Swiss guy in a minuscule village right near the lake. Getting there was quite an adventure, as it always is when visiting untouristy villages. Once I arrived to Catemaco, the 'big' city near the lake, I had to take a collective pirate taxi to the that village where the eco hostel was. Those colectivos come in usually in two models: the standard family car and a type of van (I'm sorry, I'm lousy if comes to cars). Since the fare is often incredibly cheap, for instance 10 pesos (= 0.60 EUR), they collect as many people that can possibly fit into the colectivo. In Catemaco there were these vans that connect all communities around the lake with Catemaco. For the locals that's their only way of getting around. It was my first experience with said type of public transport and I have to admit it's quite enjoyable. Since the passengers are packed together almost like cattle it creates a brief moment of trivial sociability, depending on the people of course. Topics such as work, family and weather are commonly brought up.

The eco hostel was... mind-blowing, astounding, simply beautiful. More exact, the place where the Swiss guy had built his place. To get there you had to either take a little boat or walk for ten minutes over a narrow muddy path along the shore. So with my human-size backpack and bulky guitar case I took the dry way. Upon arriving I was met with picturesque bamboo huts neatly covered underneath tropical vegetation topped with a postcard view of the peaceful lake facing the hostel. This is also called the 'wow-effect'.

One day I went out hiking by myself. I didn't figure out exactly where I wanted to walk to, I'd just see what would cross my path. In one of the communities I passed I hooked up a conversation with a group of locals who were seated on the ground having e few beers. Actually, they asked me where I was heading to. I said there was this one village I was recommended by the hostel's owner. All four men started explaining the same directions differently in choir. That habit of a bunch of people talking through each other upon asking them for directions was something I'd encountered more often. Quite funny, that's for sure. After the guys were done explaining they invited me to have a glass of beer. I was totally surprised by their spontaneous kindness to a foreigner like me. I hadn't experienced such openness from local people on this trip, especially from yokels. Well, one beer became two, then three, then four,... I can't remember the exact figure of alcoholic beverages we had, but two of the guys had reached their limit. One of them stumbled home jabbering incoherences, the other fell asleep in a sitting position. I only reached a state of slight tipsiness. Walking back to the hostel to prepare dinner I realized what an interesting experience I'd just had as a result of accepting a beer from four guys sitting on the main road of their community. Oh right, one of them was sort of the domestic 'police officer' in charge of the town's security, and also someone occupied the position of major. That seems like a town I'd like to live in! Before leaving the guys offered to show me around for free, even on horseback. I agreed on coming but eventually I couldn't make it because I had to be in Oaxaca to meet my Couchsurf host. A true pity, I walked away from yet another unique experience now that I look back on it. Oh well, everything happens for a reason.

I'll halt here for now. There's still much to tell, which I'll expose shortly afterwards. I hope this recollection of anecdotes was of your delight.

The wedding and the divorce

2011-01-26T18:18:00.000-08:00

After my previous, somewhat emotional post I'll continue where I left off two weeks ago. My cousin Magu had invited me to a wedding party despite the couple didn't personally send me an invitation card. I had met them a week before in Tepic, but only briefly and we weren't that sober either which made the encounter rather superficial. At first I was a bit reluctant to attend the ceremony for said reason, but eventually I conceded and invited myself as Alejandra's couple in order not to appear as an unkown party crasher. And why not? After my first wedding in a tiny town near the capital a few weeks ealier I could start turning it into a sport. So, Saturday quickly came around. For the first time on my trip I actually dressed up nice for the occasion, i.e. black jeans with minor holes, a borrowed shirt and a pair of black shoes. I even combed my hair. It felt strange, but whatever. In this life I always try to think 'why not?'. Really, that question can take you to places you never imagine you'd go to. It's like saying 'yes', but less direct. The wedding wasn't too formal. Everyone was kind of dressed for the occasion, but not to that extent that a whole two-week salary was spent for the outfit. Oh, right, the (now) married were Pillo and Francia, who decided to marry just to get over the hassle. Let me tell you both are very fond of norteño music, so it doesn't surprise that genre dominated throughout the whole wedding party. It could be classified as a boda ranchera, or a real cowboy wedding, only loaded with money. Lots of money. The event started around 14:00 with the ceremony taking place in the same salon where the party was held, seen that it was a civil marriage. No religion interfered. Despite that aspect, the ceremony lacked a bit in charm. But the subsequent celebration made everyone forget that part.

Three five-liter bottles of Red Label scotch, 300 bottles of beer, an all-you-can-eat taco stand and a jukebox playing non-stop banda and norteñas for not even a 100 guests. As you could imagine, I was prepared for a binging feast just like Bacchus commands, with the expectation of at least ending up lying completely zoned out on the grass like a squashed spider. Unfortunately, precisely on that day ole' uncle Murphy came to apply his law on to me. Thank you, asshole. From the beginning I started feeling a minor stomach ache that grew worse as the evening passed by, abstaining me from alcohol and delicious tacos. I couldn't even go number two. So there I was at the table, observing how everyone else - except for Magu who suffered of diarrhea that day - launched themselves onto the party's delights. Ah yes, most oportune. Well, in the end I did manage to eat and drink a bit, so the evening wasn't completely ruined.

The time I can't remember, but suddenly a large-numbered brass band appeared and started extremely loud banda music, comparable to norteño but more focused on wind instruments instead of guitar and accordion. While the poor jukebox had trouble making the invitees move, the band instantly lifted them up. It's fascinating to watch how live norteño music incites people, a phenomenon I've witnessed on various occasions. These Mexicans sure know how to fuel up a party with good vibes. Although I'm completely fed up with the now incredibly popular genre, I tried to dance to it anyway. It's not that hard. You just have to grab your partner close to you and jump around with cartoonesque allures. It's quite fun, actually. And it made me forget the discomfort in my bowels.

The evening slowly, but pleasantly turned into night while the band played on and the guests handed themselves over to drunken revelry, when a minor drama was starting to build up. I won't go further into it, instead I'll just say it inspired me to write the previous entry which reflects the moral weight I was carrying. It got a bit out of control when the party was moved from the salon to the couple's roof terrace of their house. Eventually I managed more or less to ignore the ordeal and enjoyed the rest of the night. Meanwhile Pillo was introducing me to his by then inebriated friends, most of them wealthy licencees with interesting stories about their cars and travels. There's only a slight sarcastic tone to it, because some of them had really interesting things to talk about. While I was chatting around suddenly a group of musicians started hoisting their equipment onto the roof terrace. Indeed, Pillo had ordered a second band to entertain the guests. This time, a norteño band consisting of accordion, guitar, bass and percussion. My cousin Magu told me they charged 3000 pesos (about 176 EUR) per hour. I didn't verify that figure, but just imagine the cost of hiring two bands playing for two hours or more. And so the party went on untill I was too tired to talk and drink. Unpercieved I descended and lay down, physically and mentally exhausted. I wasn't even slightly tipsy, probably due to the moral hangover as my cousin Mariana described it perfectly. The day was done.

In the end I had a pretty good time: a vibrant mood, people dancing, music, food, alcohol,... Indeed, it was a succesful evening despite the drama. Eventually it wasn't that unfortunate that I couldn't binge on. It would have worsened the situation without a doubt. And sometimes, it's kind of fun observing with sober eyes others evolve from decent, withhold and formal guests to loosend up, intoxicated and exhilirated satyrs. A bit lonely, but fun nonetheless.

After that weekend with a mindset of getting the fuck out, I left GDL and its affairs to make a final family stop in León, Guanajuato. Actually, I was ready to jump back into the unknown but I couldn't just ignore that part of my vast family tree who I hadn't seen in about ten years. Ten years! That's a whole lifetime. So there I stayed for week and left just time before I would be tempted anew to stay longer. Taken the long time gap into consideration I was confronted with a couple of interesting developments. For instance, the younger child of the bunch - Marcelo - has grown from a crying toddler into a 15-year old adolescent with an interest in music and parkour. The second youngest Manuel is now 19 years old and keeps himself busy with handicrafts, djembe and the guitar. I discovered he is one of the few cousins with similar interests and view on life. Then, both females Arzi (23) and Rosi (21) have become mothers of two. There you go, Mexicans are really hasty in that respect. It's kind of like: "Oh, gosh, 25 is coming close. I better get knocked up and marry quick so I can waste the best years of my life to early adulthood." Well, more or less. It's like how I look at it in a humoristic way. But obviously cultural differences make early family planning in this country common. Anyway, for the first time I was reminded that I've been an uncle for a quite a while without even noticing it. That was a pretty enlightening experience. When I heard them say: "Look darling, here's your uncle Diego", "What do you think of your uncle?" or "Your uncle Diego comes from very far" I was stunned, silenced, even endeared. Now that's instant aging right there.

In that week my cousin Armando and his girlfriend took me to the yearly fair which isn't that much different from fairs in Belgium with the exception of the food stands. Man, there was so much to eat for such moderately cheap prices! Endless rows of tacos, hamburgers, hotdogs, gorditas, more tacos, seafood, etc. colourize like christmas lights in the night. And don't forget the odours, they make you hungry all the time. A typical snack of that region are dorilocos: a bag of Doritos cut open and filled with peanuts, cucumber, tomato, animal skin and a very, very spicy sauce. A delicacy, only I couldn't finish it because it was way too hot for me. I couldn't even talk. The cool thing is, afterwards you get a high feeling, as if it were some kind of drug. Anyway, the rest of the week I spent hanging around with Armando's youngest brother Marcelo (15), who I feel kind of looked up to me. Manuel, the second youngest, taught me about working with leather, i.e. making handicrafts such as satchels and bracelets. Whenever he was home we would do some jamming, a delight I haven't experienced for a long time. On Saturday the family took me to Guanajuato, the state's capital, probably the most enchanting city of the republic. Extremely colonial, cozy plazas, colourful markets, street artists, romantic squares and narrow alleyways. Definitely, I could live here. But before that we went to see a high Jebus statue on a hill. Honestly, I wasn't really that interested since the symbolic meaning of the place is nihil for me. The view from the top was worth it, but lunchtime was my personal highlight of the day. Litteraly, I ate like a pig. The place was kind of an open house construction with inside a woodfired stove where Doña Carmen prepared the dishes and freshly made corn tortillas on. It was no more than a buffet: you simply pick a plate, grab some warm tortillas and serve freely from a dozen typical Mexican dishes. Man, it was eaters' paradise. All that for just 40 pesos (2.40 EUR). But because the lady knows my family for over 12 years now she charged us 30 pesos for everything, including drinks. Filled up with for two days for little money, now that's happiness right there. Later that day we even went for tacos at a place where everything you ordered was 2x1. I didn't need to eat anymore, but refusing tacos al pastor (spit-frilled pork) with cubed onions, coriander leafs and sweat chili sauce is just too hard. If there's one strong memory of Mexico I'll have back in Belgium, it's its cuisine.

And so the week passed on with frightening intranscendence. Monday I said my goodbye to the family, the last ones I'll see on this trip. Now I'll be moving around in more southern areas, where I think I will feel more at home. We'll see.

My rearview mirror

2011-01-16T11:54:00.000-08:00

There is always a moment on this journey that it's time to leave. Wherever I am, after a while, whether after three days or four weeks, I feel something in me that suggests to pack my bag and take the first bus to nowhere. Not necessarily because I'm fed up with the people that I'm staying with, or because the place doesn't appeal to me. Moreover, it's a sudden need to change my state from still to action. Also, I always fear that I'm becoming a burden to my hosts after a while and therefore want to leave before any annoyances emerge so to avoid leaving a negative impression. A feeling of incommodity, nervosity, impatience in my veins helps to sense the moment. It happened in Austin after staying 10 days, in San Francisco after three weeks and it is happening now. Today marks the fourth week of my stay in Guadalajara and I more than eager to leave the place. However, the family plays an extra role in this story. Before coming, I cherished a naïve expectation of reuniting with them and happily forget the disputes and disagreements of the past. Of course, that's a pretty stupid thought. Quickly I recalled the wretchedness of a vast family tree. Besides, I noticed how different people we all are and how little they understand my way of life. If it weren't for our bloodlines, I would have absolutely no attachment to them. Only a few truly understand me, or at least try to. I enjoyed seeing back my family, but I have to admit I've had better times on this trip with other, totally unknown people. If it weren't for Alejandra, I would have left much earlier. Now, after this weekend I feel it's necessary to say my goodbye. I've stayed for too long, and I'm starting to do more bad than good. I can't cope with, or better, I don't want to cope with negative vibrations. This traveling mode is starting to fail. I can't stay too long in one place anymore. Firstly, because of my plan of getting to Buenos Aires by the time August hits the bend, secondly because I've learned now that attaching to the people I meet isn't always good. I'm thinking of changing my ways. Roadtripping, bushopping, a different city each night. Truly on the road, not staring at the walls. I'll see whether I keep up the effort. As we all know, life is like a box of chocolates and who knows how tomorrow will look like.

I want to walk the hemisphere
A different city every night
Empty bottles of beer in galore
To follow the flow
See where it takes me
Little time to affectionate
Superficialness is inevitable
Thank you and goodbye
Sorry if I hurt

Dancing with Bacchus and his ecstatic satyrs

2011-01-14T08:03:00.000-08:00

The weekend that followed New Year was really just a prolongation of Friday's bacchanal. On New Year's day, while Mariana, Alex and I were recovering my cousin Magu finally showed up. His face, hidden underneath large shades and a cap, revealed his Friday night story. As I mentioned in the previous post, he suffered the consequences of hitting a liter of scotch and eating roast meat afterwards, being the following: vomiting all over his room, slipping over it while running to the bathroom and his mother who devoutly cleaned the entire mess up. His excuse? It was the roast meat who had done him bad. Ah yes, I've looked similarly over the years as a result of eating 'bad meat'. Anyway, Magu and I had planned to go to Tepic, a city about forty minutes away from the Pacific coast. Before we could leave however, his parents obliged him to attend mass at church as form of penitence. I decided to join him so we could leave immediately right after. Supposedly he's a catholic, but in fact spends the whole time observing attractive women and making immature jokes. I actually enjoyed myself in church for the first time in years.

Now, in Tepic we were offered to stay at Imelda's house, the girlfriend of Carlos who's a friend of Magu's, who stayed for two weeks at my place in Antwerp while he was studying architecture in Milan. After an hour and half of cruising on the road (it felt great to move fast again, especially after so many weeks of sedentary life), we finally arrived at the state's capital Tepic. Honestly, a pretty ugly city. We didn't stay long at the house. Immediately Imelda teamed up two friends to join the nocturnal journey. Two very lovely women, Sinahi and Alejandra. Perhaps the most pleasant girls I've met since Monterrey. The gang and I hopped only three bars, although enough for me to end up plastered yet again. In the second bar, were delicious draft beer was served, I quickly hauled in two one-liter cups of dark beer. While ordering my second round to the waiter I accidently ordered another one, who did not understand my sign indicating 'thanks'. To my surprise Alejandra embraced it and followed me all the way till the end. In a way it's pitiful, although also hilarious and maybe even typical, but Bacchus brought us together that night. In Belgium it is sometimes said that if you find a woman who drinks beer, you don't need to ask for more. Well, that Saturday was something like that, although not entirely true. Luckily, I've had the opportunity to talk to Alejandra with a sober conscious and it turned out be quite interesting. On that saturday night there were a number of memorable moments. In the last bar for instance, Alejandra and I were 'talking' when she suddenly fell from her stool. Since I was nearing the state of complete inebriation, not only had I no strength anymore, I couldn't stop laughing at all. Together with two others of the gang we lifted her up, luckily with no serious consequences. It wasn't my fault, seriously. Then, while driving back home Alejandra gave me - or I aksed her, I can't remember - her cell phone number. I was done typing the number into the device when suddenly, during an uncomfortable silence in the car, only disturbed by the radio, I asked her: "So, uhm, what's your name again?". Hyena-like laughter followed the question. That's Magu's version of the story. I, however, believe I was asking for her last name. Unfortunately, no one digs it. Luckily, we were both drunk which alleviated the humiliating situation a little. Back at Imelda's place we closed the night off with another beer, where those assholes were filling up my glass while I was giving a drunk sermon. Of course I didn't notice it and they were pushing me to drink faster. That marked the end of the writer's nocturnal escapade. Magu assisted me with removing my shoes and covering me with a blanket. That's what I call cousinly love.

The next day there was no time to recover from the hangover. The same gang minus Alejandra and I had full-day excursion to the sea. We went to a beach close the San Blas that's not infected by large buildings such as hotel resorts, restaurants and apartments. It was my first visit to the sea on this trip and as I far as I can remember, I had never seen such a civilization- and tourist-free beach. Apart from some palapas, dwellings with roofs made out of dried palm leaves, there was no more human construction to be found. We drove our car up all the way till the sand just like the others. You could see families with their cars parked near the shore sitting around fireplaces drinking, eating and most of all enjoying the view. There were actually plants and birds and things around. Before I went for a swim I gazed to the surroundings on top of a rock, contemplating about what had happened the night before and more. A beach like that definitely lends itself for any kind of meditation, just like standing on top of a mountain. While I was standing on that rock I concluded that the latter attracts me more. I'm definitely a mountain. Or maybe I haven't witnessed a sea which evokes the same melancholic feeling like a view from a peak does. Anyway, we stayed there for while, ate a little in one of the palapas and drove to San Blas. There, in a bar at around three in the afternoon we were hitting some cocos locos, coconuts filled with an undefined mix of strong spirits and coconut milk. I felt Bacchus creeping from behing the door again. It didn't escalate like the day before, though. The rest of the day isn't much worth mentioning. Back at Imelda's house Magu, Sinahi and I went out for some pizza. After she left, the two of us drank a last beer in the dark on top of the house listening to mariachi songs about shattered love and drowning sorrows in tequila. Jolly. New Year's weekend had come to an end, and good too. My body was broken.

Another week passed by like a day with a few highlights here and there. Rendezvous with Alejandra, a family get-together, meeting Magu's friends,... Time is a terrible enemy. For the weekend that was to follow my cousin Andrea organized a trip to Tequila, birthplace of the homonymous spirit. The idea was to get together only the direct cousins, but everyone brought along a friend or partner. With a gang of about 13 people we stayed at an enormous genuine hacienda in middle of town. The house was easily over a hundred years old, including its furniture, paintings, books, etc. A true historical gem. My cousin Sergio's girlfriend Paulette - who is the living version of Minnie Mouse only without the big ears - her family owns the place. They use the hacienda only for recreational purposes and social gatherings of all kinds. With other words, we had a free place to crash and it wasn't the least. We only had to pay a ridiculous small amount to the lady who takes care of the house and even kooks for the guests. I've experienced some very interesting social differences while traveling and the weekend at the hacienda marked another highlight. Indeed, Sergio didn't choose the poorest girl on the street. Interesting how going with the flow takes you to places you wouldn't imagine going to. An interesting aspect of the house was its alleged hauntedness. Paulette had warned us in advance that many people had died in there and how sometimes creepy apparitions of a man in a black cape or a girl would hover around. There was also an American who had taken a picture of a mirror wherein the image of a deceased family member is visible. She told us that many hired shamans confirmed the spiritual gravity of the house. Well, for a sceptic, sober European like me it's hard to take those warnings serious. But here in Mexico, and perhaps in more Latin American countries, there exists a much stronger belief in the spiritual world and all of its manifestations to the human eye. Obviously, that creates a vicious circle where clever charlatans take advantage of easily deceived people who are ready to believe anything supernatural served on a plate.

Anyway, in Tequila my cousin Andrea proposed to the group to get on one of those ridiculous tourist cars that take you around town and to a couple of distilleries. I wasn't really fond of the idea, but we all accepted in the end and it turned out to be an entertaining ride. In the barrel-shaped tourist vehicle were already a few quiet families whose silence was abruptly disturbed by our tumult, mainly caused by my cousin Magu and his friend Carlos. It was hilarious alright, but I felt embarrassed sometimes because they wouldn't let the guide speak. Then, while driving the chauffeur - baptized by us as 'Paco' - would turn off the lights, crack the volume knob open and ignite the disco ball. Indeed, there was even a disco ball in that car. The tour consisted mainly of two parts: information about Tequila the town and the spirit, and samples. My noisy group of cousins and friends requested so stubbornly the tequila-tasting part that the guide actually gave up talking and led us straight to the bottles. It didn't stop there, though. In fact, it felt like going on an excursion with my class in secondary school: always making noise, never listening. I did however learned how to taste tequila properly, just like wine. Seriously.

After the party tour we bought everything needed to continue the night adequately: a five-liter plastic jar of white tequila, several bottles of Squirt, ice and crisps. The rest you can imagine. It was kind of the classic five-phase scheme of inebriation. The following morning I felt like absolute shit. The worst hangover I've had in years. All went well till I got out of bed, when yesterday's bacchanalia came to collect the price. Surprisingly, I was the only one in that lousy state. It was that bad that I couldn't even eat, just when the housekeeper prepared hot cakes. A truely sad moment. Oh well, that's a fair price to pay for alcohol-induced funtime. That sunday we rolled out with a relaxed visit to some beautiful springwater-based pools.

Good times, good times...

GDL homecoming

2011-01-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

About three weeks ago I finally arrived at Guadalajara, my second hometown. From the very beginning of this trip various cousins have been asking me when I would come since they had all heard the Belgian cousin was coming back after four years. Four years. Even for me that's too long. As a kid my parents and I used to come over more frequently, sometimes leaving a year or two in between. Honestly, partly because of rebellion, partly because I was fed up doing the same thing each year, I stopped going. But about two years ago I started feeling that urge to look up the other part of my identity again, which I had been neglecting during the years in Belgium. My adultery-commiting uncle Nacho in Monterrey pointed it out to me perfectly: "La sangre llama" (Blood calls). And he's right. After staying for a long while at the other side of the Atlantic I couldn't stop thinking of Mexico. Its food, its music, its people and of course the family. Not that I get along well with all of them, because there are really way too much of them, but there are some family members who I hold close to my heart. So as you could imagine, the reunion with my closest cousins at the bus station was very gladdening. And even though it had been four years since I last stepped foot on Mexico, it didn't seem like that long when I saw their faces. It's interesting how long time lapses can be absolutely meaningless, sometimes. Sometimes, because in the course of the following weeks I would notice how different people we've all become, or at least me. Sometimes I have the impression that I'm the only one who's changed in comparison with the rest. For instance, they seem to take pleasure in denominating me a 'rebellious, tree-hugging hippy' for my ripped clothes, ideologies and inability to make plans. Most of all my clothing habits have become a target for mockery. My aunt Rosana offered me to buy a new pair pants, while aunt Elia - feeling so sorry for my paint-covered seven euro shoes - bought me a new pair for Christmas which I in the meantime have exchanged for a pretty cool sailor-like army bag. They weren't really my style, honestly. I haven't told her, though. She'll probably resent it, but, fuck it. I explicitly asked her not to buy me any clothes. Furthermore she doesn't understand I can't carry too much weight anymore. But anyway, it was nice to see them again.

After the hugging part of the reunion my cousins immediately started asking me after my plans, a word I haven't used a lot on this trip. Since I don't really have any, Elia's children decided I should stay at their house for the first couple of days. Oh wait, before I continue, let me outline my family tree briefly. Or else the story will get pretty confusing, even for me.

Okay, so as far as I'm informed the tree dates back to a mixed marriage of a pale-skinned man and an indigenous woman from the Purepecha tribe. I don't recall their names, nor how many children they had, but I know that one of them bore three sisters: Maria Teresa, Lurdes and Lupe. I'll take that as a starting point.

My great-grandmother - who's name I don't remember - had three children, those who I mentioned above.

Maria Teresa, better known as 'Tita', is my late grandmother. She and my also late grandfather had three daughters: Rosana, Elia and my mother Maria Teresa

Rosana has three children: Mariana, Ignacio and Angel - referred to as the Diaz family. Elia likewise: Andrea, Sergio and Carolina - the Gonzalez family. My mother: me.

But then my grandmother's sisters also procreated. Lupe only bore one daughter: Cecilia. She has been married for five years but no children have emerged from that marriage. Unlike Lurdes, who gave birth to no less than 12 children. About 15 years ago one of them died in a car accident. The remaining 11 bred like rabbits. I estimate a total of around 33 cousins from that family branch. Only four of them I know by name. The rest I hardly ever meet. They're referred to as the Villa family.

Then there is my grandfather's family, who I barely know or see. And the prodigy of my grandmothers' cousins, the family-in-law of my aunts' husbands,...

As you can see, my family tree gets pretty complicated after a while. So I'll leave it here for now. I hope you got a better understanding, because I don't, really.

So first I stayed at the house of the Gonzalez for a week, afterwards at the Diaz'. I spent the days visiting relatives, talking and eating with them. All good. On the first Tuesday my cousin Magu took me to a lucha libre competition, the Mexican equivalent of U.S.'s professional wrestling, but much more fun. Honestly, I don't really enjoy sports wherein two guys are beating the shit out of eachother, especially when they adopt sexually tinted combat moves that make it look like hardcore gay porn. But in lucha libre the whole folklore around the ring is more interesting than the fight itself. For instance, Magu and I had balcony tickets, there where supposedly the 'poor' are seated, whereas below near the ring the 'rich' people are. Between those two levels there is a constant verbal war wherein both parties insult eachother. This happens during the fights, which consequently makes it difficult to pay attention to the show. On the balcony, there's a group of people - mainly men - that dispose of a wide range of fixed shouts. For example, if close to the ring an attractive woman walks by the group will shout 'vuelta!', 'vuelta!' (turn!, turn!), which indicates that the woman has to make a little pirouette to show what she's got. Or if during a short break the showgirls appear from behing the scenes they are requested to jump to, you know, let it bounce. If she does so, she is rewarded with the unflattering comment: 'Esa sí es puta!', meaning 'That's a slut, alright!'. Also fellow spectators can be target of these mockings. If you by any chance look like a celebrity such as Justin Bieber or Austin Powers, you'll sure be the victim of the group's ridiculing. Unsurprisingly, so was I. My Tarahumara sandals, fuzzy hair and shorts gave them enough reason to call me Judas Thaddaeus and Barabas. That happened when we were leaving the coliseum. Just when I thought I was safeguarded from them, 20 men in line shouted 'Judas Tadeo, chinga a tu madre!' (J.T., fuck your mother). Oh well, I didn't mind. It was all part of the show.

The same week my cousin Andrea gave me my first paid job as a carrier and sticking adhesive labels on enveloppes. Nothing extroadinary, luckily I had enjoyable female company who alleviated the boring burden of our repetitive task. I had quite a time chatting with them, especially when they discovered my origin, and even more when I told I spoke a little bit of French. That really knocked them out. It wasn't the first time I noticed that speaking French here is considered extremely romanticm, mostly by women. An interesting contrast with Belgium, where in the north the language is looked at with digust. After the second workday the Gonzalez family organized a pre-Christmas dinner/posada for the direct family. Unfortunately, I had fallen ill badly that day which left me in no mood for a family get-together. A number of things made me feel annoyed about the whole thing, such as my uncle Jesus (Aunt Elia's husband) who over the years has grown very grumpy, grouchy. Well, I can't comment too much because of the public character of this journal. But in general I felt pretty bored at the dinner because I didn't stop comparing it with last year's Christmas weekend with friends in a mountain cot loaded with food and a shitload of alcohol, free from irritating jolly Christmas songs and traditional ornaments. That was the best profane Christmas ever. The whole religious aspect of the dinner at the Gonzalez made my eyes roll till they almost popped out. At one moment, Jesus was reading from the bible after which we all had to say thanks to niñito Dios (baby Jesus) for something we were grateful for. By the way, in the state of Jalisco the coming of Santa is remplaced by the birth of Jesus who for reasons unknown hands out gifts to the faithful. I didn't have anything specific to thank our friend Jebus for, but to avoid any desillusion amongst my family members I quickly invented something about being happy of being reunited after four years of absence. It actually hurt telling a lie of such proportion, as if my agnostic persona was trying to refrain me of saying bullshit. Don't get me wrong, I'm highly pleased to meet my beloved cousins, uncles and aunts again after so long. On of my objectives of this trip was to reunite for the urge to return was bigger than ever. But it wasn't Mini Jebus who paid my plane ticket to cross the Atlantic, it was my boss back in Belgium who sought after it. And my own self, my concious who said: "Fuck it, it's time leave this place." Not God, not his son, nor a flying spaghetti monster, me. Anyway, I tried to made to make the best out of it. Tolerance is a difficult but valuable virtue. Embarrassment kicked in however, when it was time to hand out the gifts. Taken as en easy but valid excuse, due to my limited travel budget I didn't have anything to give (not that I'm a splendid gift person...). To my surprise I received a number of gifts such as chocolates, cookies and even money. I could have crawled in my hole. They didn't mind I had nothing to exchange. With only your presence it's more than satisfactory, they told me. It's hard to believe, but they didn't make a deal out of it so neither did I.

Later that week I had to endure a second Christmas dinner, this time only with the Gonzalez family. It was alright: we had pizza, there were gifts, nice chattings. It didn't stop there, though. The next day I was invited to yet another Christmas meal at great-aunt Lupe's house. It wasn't dinner, but rather lunch, in Mexico called el recalentado (the warmin-up) referring to heating up the same dinner of the day before. That was about enough Christmas celebrations for me in a while. Hmm, I guess I'm turning slowly into a grynch after all. Not like in the movie, though. The best part of the whole celebration is getting together, eating multiple indigestions and drinking in the name of Our Lord Jebus, savior of this damned world. Well, there wasn't much drinking involved, but I ate like a horse.

Several days passed with interesting and less interesting facts worth mentioning until suddenly we hit the last day of the year again. Aah, New Year, my favourite celebration of the year. Much is discussed about this day, both negatively and positively. In its essence it's also no more than an excellent excuse to get together and feast. Although New Year is just another day in life - merely an exaggeration of a Friday night - it is the last day of yet another year which has to be said goodbye to with a bang. Particularly its naive positive message attracts me: try to do and/or be better with this change of year. It's a moment where everyone's rejoicing and confirming the presence of their loved ones. Obviously, all this has become much too forced, exaggerated, just like Christmas. And I believe few people actually try to make a difference with each new beginning of year. But that's not important. The part of getting together not only with friends and family, but with everyone in your neighbourhood is the most interesting, I believe. As I like it, massing up in a big city with loads of alcohol to watch the fireworks and afterwards party till sunrise. Of course, if you're not into big crowds and all that overdone shit, there's plenty of other possibilities. Anyway, none of what I just mentioned was to be found in the center of Guadalajara. The second biggest city of Mexico, ten in the evening and no life whatsoever. No kids playing with fireworks, no youngsters boozing up for midnight, no massive movements of people, no music, nothing. Absolutely nothing. The scene was sad. Because of a lack of money and disorganization my cousin Mariana, Alex a friend and I ended up roaming the the city for action. Being kind of our last resort, I didn't think it was such a bad idea until I witnessed the solitude on that last day of the year. Apparently, everyone ships of to the coast like Puerto Vallarta where all the buzz is. And also, according to Alex, seen that New Year has no religious background whatsoever there's no reason to celebrate it in Mexico, especially in conservative Guadalajara. The scene was rapidly turning less comforting. As the three of us were walking to a bar Mariana suggested, and eventually turned out to be closed, we witnessed how poorly crowded bars were closing its doors as midnight neared. Our situation was slowly moving from sad to pathetic. The only person who could have saved us was my cousin Magu, who called us to tell us that he was going to pick us up in an hour. Unfortunately, the man drank himself shitfaced on whiskey consequently slipping away on his own vomit in his room, so we were told the next day. And so, still in the believe Magu was coming to pick us up, we decided to walk in the first bar that comes up to have a beer until his arrival. While we were walking through a park I suddenly heard live music from a distance. As we were approaching the place turned out to be a rock bar barely filled till half and a band playing famous rock and metal songs on request. "Not bad", we thought. Mariana, Alex and I sat down, ordered a cubeta - litteraly a bucket of beer on ice - and didn't leave the place until the joint closed its doors. The new year was heralded with the band's rendition of Steppenwolf's 'Born To Be Wild', an excellent tune to start 2011. Great music, good beer, pleasant vibe, enjoyable company,... that's all it takes to make a succesful evening/night. We had forgotten about Magu, eventually.

Well, there's still more to be told but I'll leave it here for a moment. Although New Year was 10 days ago, I still wish you all a pleasant new beginning of 2011. Enjoy it, because the year's already almost over.

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

2010-12-28T09:45:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-24T11:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-15T08:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-05T21:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-03T01:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-24T12:44:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-23T09:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-08T16:32:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

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.

About buses, fear of hats and mammal fixation

2010-11-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

Just before I left off from Creel to Hidalgo Del Parral, a small untouristy city, I did something a lot of people would never have thought me capable of doing. For some time on this trip I've been complaining much about my most loyal six-string compagnon. That tavel guitar I bought about two years ago when I traveled through Central Europe with the intention of carrying a small-sized, tough efficient guitar instead of a bulky regular one that would have been a royal pain in the ass carrying. Now, since its price was far from expensive, its quality was likewise. To such extent that it affected my playing skills (how professional is that?). Now, my first intention was to send it with a message written on it as a postcard to Bélgica and buy a decent, better one here. In Creel there was this half American, half Puerto Rican, ex-mormon, volunteering guy named Manuel who at the first look at my guitar instantly fell in love with it. Before my brain could even consider the rational path of thought, I simply said: "Have it." Consequently, I was left out with no guitar, but with less weight, another point of complaint I've had throughout this trip and something I've done little to resolve. Indeed, I, Diego Faes, donated nothing but my guitar to someone else, never to see her again. Right afterwards my mind was fighting a brief war between utter fear of abandoning and the joyous feeling of unselfishness. To this day, that war still wages on occassion. But the feeling of making someone else happy by way of donating is more than satisfactory. Yes, I litteraly gave away probably my most faithful female partner ever (because guitar=woman). But it is not the end. Promiscuity can be a relief. However, Manuel refused to accept my gift withouth a favour in return. Since I was leaving Creel the very next morning, he searched quickly for something to give me and came up with nothing less than a soccer ball-sized peach candy, made by Indigenous people whose name I have forgotten. I guess its weight was slightly more than the total of my ex-guitar and its accesories such as bottleneck, capo and recording device. Because my intention was to relieve myself of some weigth, I was not fully enthousiastic with it. I mean, I didn't exactly jump a hole through the roof out of wetting happiness. Nevertheless, I accepted the gift with sincere gratefulness instead of throwing it in his face. "Never look a given horse in its mouth", I say. As long as Manuel's happy with it, I'm happy too. But honestly, the first thing I thought of when I looked upon that candy thing was: "Fucking hell, Jebus Allmighty! Móre weight!". I ate some of it, but since sweetness isn't my tongue's favourite taste, I gave it away to my host in Durango, who's fond of sweet assortments such as a soccer ball-size peach candy. Manuel, if you're reading this, my fondest apologies. It's just that my backpack was kind of rowing at me because of the weigth and all. She can be grouchy sometimes...

Now I will continue with a more interesting story. I guess. That is, the journey from Creel to Hidalgo Del Parral. To nail the distance I had to endure two 60's style busses with best body material and isolation system. And by 'best' I mean it was completely rubbish. Recreative activities such as listening to music on a for me acceptible volume, reading, writing, or something as glorious as sleeping were made very difficult, almost impossible. Let me illustrate. The first bus left at eight in the morning, when it was still bone-freezing cold outside. The windows and entrance door were poorly isolated so that icy, chilling wind caused by the vehicle's motion blew inside. I was prepared for this in terms of clothing, but the legs underneath my skinny jeans weren't, refraining me from sleeping somewhat comfortably. Secondly, the noise produced by the bus's engine made listening to music withouth damaging one's ears very hard. So that was no option. Thirdly, and here are two possibilities. Or the bus's springs were obsolete which made a tiny bump feel like a rollercoaster ride, or the road we were on was in terrible shape capable of bouncing a vehicle of a cliff into the black. Anyway, that made even reading very unpleasant. Reading a sentence for five minutes, trying to fix your eyes on the letters can cause a headache, believe me. And lastly, each time the bus driver shifted from second to third gear, or the other way around, a most horrifying sound emerged from under the bus, as if it were about to fall apart in a thousand little pieces, leaving only but the steering-wheel in the driver's hands just like in the movies. However, all the preceded made the trip absolutely worthwhile, not to mention memorably. No comfort for me. As Mexicans put it perfectly: "No hay que llegar primero, pero hay que saber llegar." (One doesn't have to be first, one has to know how to get there) Indeed, as long as I get to point B, I mind very little. Now just imagine those incommodities I just summed up, but in a similar bus with the afternoon heat fomenting human's unpleasant odours. Yummy. Was I glad when we arrived in Hidalgo Del Parral.

I picked Parral because of its low number of visiting tourists and its general unknown aura. Therefore I spent my time walking around, reading and writing. I missed my guitar already. Luckily there was some kind of religious procession on the go which made the visit more interesting. The procession showed, to my guess, first how the indigenous people of the Pre-Hispanic era were submitted to the best religion in the word, Catholicism, and how happy they were replacing there more intriguing deities and customs by God Allmighty and his loser son. Right after them a bunch of white-clothed happy Catholics and nuns grouped together to sing glorious, three-chord church songs in repeat. The funny thing about it was that in the car were a set of giant, loud speakers were attached to, half a dozen nuns were trying to sing the lead while one of them played the songs on guitar, aided by another nun who was holding up the microphone and score simultaneously. Believe me, that was a some comical sight. Too bad my shitty camera didn't take a decent picture of the scene.

Another thing I encountered in that little town is the apparent surprise and/or fear regular, uneducated, mostly male Mexicans inherit towards my clothing and appearance in general. From the start, I've noticed lots of attention, i.e. penetrating looks, from both men and women as I stroll through the streets. Female attention obviously I don't really mind, but having men looking at me with a mocking smile is quite disturbing. The worst of them are youngsters, adolescents, pre-teenage fellows. Usually, in chorus, laugh and occassionaly even point at me. I find that kind of bizarre. Apparently, my hat, my jeans, my indigenous sandals or even my hair is reason for them to look over surprisingly. I guess I don't look that Mexican after all, unfortunately. In the course of my voyage, I've been assigned several nationalities, ranging from Chilean to American and Canadian. European or Mexican don't really come up in their heads. Albeit, not éveryone thinks alike. Still, not being recognized as Mexican by my fellow compatriots is not only a punch in my insignificant ego, it is sad. A remarkable example thereof is this guy who halted in the middle of street to observe me and shout the following unflattering remark: "Hey! Está bueno el disfrás, cabrón!" (Nice dress you got there, boy) Idiot. Ignorance reigns here. And believe me, if there's someone dressed like a clown, it's those wannabe American cowboys with their cowboy hats and fake leather boots. Voilà, that was my childish remark to it. From a more adult perspective, it's their inner fear for the unknown/uncommon, and most of all showing that fear, that result in those typical joking remarks. Hiding fear by protective laughter. It makes sense to me.

Despite the incomprehesion, I still enjoyed that little town. The old man, far beyond the official age of retirement, and his lady friends at the hotel made my stay pleasant. Old people and mature women always make nice people to converse to. Next stop, Durango.

Actually, I wanted to go straight to Zacatecas, a small (but mindwise more open) colonial city. But seen that the road thereto is pretty long, and I didn't want to skip too much, I decided I'd stay in Durango for a few days. Maybe the most interesting for my dearest readers about that city is the fact that many old western movies of Hollywoodian manufacture were filmed in the desertland surrounding the urban area. More interesting is the host I stayed with. Pablo has probably been the most considering, caring host I've met so far. He treated me like a long-lost brother or cousin that he hadn't seen for ages, more or less. Also his parents were absolutely kind to an indecent-looking vagabond, randomly invading their house. It strucks me every time how nice people there are on the couchsurfing project. If I were a priest, I would bless it with my most faithful of prayers and holy water. Also there, I have been trying to nail some of my books so I can give them away in order to reduce the total carrying weight. I've been feeding my soul intelectually, that's for sure. Durango hosted me for three days, so it was time to move on to the next destination. Before I left off, the parents told me goodbye at 05:30. The mother, just like Jozabad's grandmother in Monterrey, gave me la bendición, the blessing, athough not as emotional as the granny's. One doesn't have to believe in their god to feel their emotional attachment to it.

In Zacatecas I had trouble contacting my host, Marbel. Something in our bilateral communication went wrong, as a result that I ended up waiting in front of closed door, unable to call or text him (later I discovered he hadn't paid his phone bill). "No problem", I thought. I'll just read one of my many books I carry around. But since I can be quite unpatient sometimes, I grew more frustrated by the minute. I just hate it when people don't attend an appointment, especially when they don't inform. Luckily, my impatience didn't grow into anger. Suddenly, one of Marbel's friends, Abraham, shows up with a Slovenian girl, Natasja, also a couchsurfer. She too was going to stay the same place I was. But since there was no sign of Marbel, we decided to have some beers and hang around. To make a long story short, our host finally showed up with a lousy excuse. I didn't bother that much anymore. The important thing is that he was there and all was well again. He proofed to be an excellent host during the four days I stayed there. Two nights in a row we both ended up plastered. The first one because I'd smoked weed and I hadn't smoked in about a month. Weed+beer+tequila= ... Many of befriended readers have witnessed me in that condition. The next day it was just beer and whiskey. But instead of an informal friend's apartment, the second night of debauchery took place in a big, lower upper class house where a familiy was having a calm reunion. Only, the 31 year-old son, who still lives in that house with his paremts (!!!), converted it into a typical Mexican come-together-with-friends-drinking-occassion. Delightful...

Marbel the host, was kind of tiring me. He had much interesting to talk about, especially when it came to food and his brand new hostel. But the subject slided all to often to women. I don't mind, but talking in repeat about girlfriends, their abilities in bed, wanting to hook up with 'horny' European women, or the boobs on that broad walking by, can get boring. No bad word on him, don't get me wrong. But you know, you got to find a balance between your topics. He is someone I like to call in Dutch a tettenzot, or a breast madman. Someone with a mammal fixation. I have it too, but in a more healthy dosis. We men all have it.

That's about it for now. I still have much to write about, but I'll leave it from here to not make this post too long. I wouldn't like to bore you, of course. At the moment I'm in San Luis Potosí, about which I'll write on another occassion. Stay out of harm, and don't let the routine monster eat you.

Kind regards,

Faes

Creel: embracing mountains, stars and unpolluted air

2010-10-25T21:31:00.000-07:00

So, twelve days since the last post, which means lots to write about. Only, it takes a few moments to recall those so-called 'unforgettable' experiences. Oh, how the mind is a volatile instrument...

I left off in Chihuahua where I stayed a couple of days with Roberto, the cooperative slave/neo hippy. Early in the morning I took a bus to Creel, the small mountain village I talked about in the previous post. A more romantic mean of transportation to that village could have been the 'Chihuahua al Pacifico', Mexico's last passenger train that tours tourists as well as ordinary workmen from the city of Chihuahua to the Los Mochis. Now, since I'm a cheap bastard I opted for the bus, which was half the price. And, since I have the reputation of sleeping anywhere at any time, I most likely would have fallen asleep on that train missing the great scenery outside for which that line is know for. The train ride might be one of Mexico's last and most valuable transport relics, but fuck that. If can choose between seeing stunning mountain complexes and actually walking in them, I'll go for the latter. Man, would I feel stupid thinking: "Wow, that's a cool canyon. I'd wish to explore it but unfortunately I'm on this stupid train from where I can only shoot uninteresting pictures from afar." On the other hand, I would liked to be on that lousy train just for the hell of it. If I had the money. But then again, I would do a lot of silly stuff if I had the money.

Upon arriving to Creel, just as I descended from the bus, I'm immediately addressed by two random guys fascinated by the size of my backpack. "What're you gonna do? Go camping or sumtin'?" As the conversation continued, I told them I came from the glorious nation of Belgium, to which they were hit by utter surprise. "Belgium??? Oh, of course." Whereupon I asked whether they could locate it. Of course, as with many Mexicans to whom I've revealed my domicile, they had never heard of such a thing as 'Belgium'. In the best case, the average Mexican has heard of Bruges, thanks to Hollywood's hit movie 'In Bruges' which pinpointed Belgium on the world map, or Brussels, where most important European institutions are located. If that person inquiring my origin hasn't heard of Bruges, nor Brussels, I tell them the country is located right in between The Netherlands (= Amsterdam to them) and France. In that case most people have a slight, vague notion of the coordinates of Belgium. If that doesn't work, I just say 'Europe' to end the burden. However, in this case of the two guys in Creel, they perplexed me with their total ignorance beyond perception. Check it out, it went more or less like this:

Me: "Belgium lies in between The Netherlands, where Amsterdam is, and France."
Them: nodding 'no'.
- "You know, France. You've heard of France right? The Revolution, Sarkozy, French...?"
º "No man, I haven't heard of that."
- "But, you have heard of Europe right?"
º "Not really man, I mean. Gee, no."
- "I mean, you do realize there is another continent besides the American one, do you? Something at the other side of the Atlantic Ocean?"

The two men just nodded 'no' with a subtle smile as in suggesting "I don't know and I don't really care." And so, I finished my futile attempt to explain my origin by saying 'that I came from very far'. Anyhow, they were very kind. They did their best. I won't judge their geographical ignorance, it just makes a very memorable story. Honestly, from all the replies on Belgium's existence by Mexicans I've had, ranging from "Oh, so you came by car?", to "Belgium? That's in the U.S., isn't it?", those two guys hit the jackpot. It will be hard to encounter a reply any more dumb than theirs. Oh well, coming from a small country as Belgium helps testing people's general knowledge of geography ánd makes brilliantly funny moments. "Hoorah for Belgium", said the English in WWI, right?

After that humoristic interval I started walking towards the hostel I had planned on staying in. All went well, booked three nights and subscribed to an interesting hiking tour which I usually dislike. The first day I rented a bike to explore the surroundings since walking them distances would be far too exhausting and aggravating. Just as I was preparing to leave, two guys walk into my dorm. One was Carl, the British version of the Simpson's Sideshow Bob but without the murder instinct. The other one was Duncan, the omnipresent world-trottering Australian with a perfect Spanish level. Resulted that they too had rented bikes. And so for the next 2 -3 days I hung out with them. A pair of excellent jocks, they were. Yes, quite. Apart from them there were other interesting travelers in the dorm. There was Toki, a Japanese girl of 24 looking 13 with a typical Asian full-teethed smile that squeezes her eyeballs into her sockets, and Iran (the correct spelling I never knew), an Israeli guy with an impressive knowledge of world politics and an incredibly irritating, but at the same time hilarious high-pitched voice that sometimes squeaked beyond human's ability of hearing the 20,000 hertz frequency limit. Now, here in Mexico I've been made fun of my French 'r' which doesn't exist here. Unfortunately, I'm not capable of pronouncing the letter 'r' with my tongue, i.e. the rolled 'r', because of my late Belgian grandmother who thought me wrongly. But that guy surpassed a throat's ability to form the letter by almost vomiting it out. A Frenchman would have scrapped his nationality, thát's how French Iran's pronunciation of the letter 'r' was. But a cool guy, nevertheless. After those four travelers left for their next destinations I was left alone in the dorm with only an English girl, named Jacky. Duncan, the Australian, described her as 'the most negative and depressing person in my nine months of traveling'. That pretty much says it all. She would wake up, get up, have breakfast and return to bed sighing that there's nothing to do. In an area filled with mind blowing nature scenery offering more than a dozen activities to explore it. She was quite depressing by times. But still, I gave her a chance and she seemed alright. I hadn't had female company in a while so I guess that makes it up somehow. I only spend one day with her and Arturo, the best ever hostel employee I've met. Or at least on of the best. He thought me the ritual to consume peyote, a hallucinogenic cactus that grows mainly in the north of Mexico. This place called Real de Catorce seems to be the travelers' destination for the consume of peyote. That's where I'm going!

Probably the most interesting part of my stay at Creel was the time I stayed with the village's one and only couchsurfer, Jorge. Since I wanted to stay longer but without paying for a hostel I figured that would a good idea to do. The interesting thing about Jorge is that he works for this benevolent foundation that works together with and aids Tarahumara communities, the local indigenous people there. Sometimes he would go to one of those communities for two days to help them seed, harvest, build water basins, etc. I was hoping to join him on one of his trips, which he was glad to hear. The first day we went only the afternoon to talk to them. Naturally I didn't say much as I'm not involved in the organization. While Jorge talked to the indians, who actually look more like dark-skinned Mexicans in a Texas cowboy outfit, I listened, observed and smiled whenever appropriate. That is, only men talk. The women, who on the other hand still dress in traditional clothing just like their ancestors, talk very little, almost nothing, and barely look up to other men besides their husband or children. However, that doesn't refrain them from burning two holes through your face with their penetrating eyes, occasionally showing a ridiculing smile. The Tarahumara namely laugh at outsiders, 'white people', and their clothing habits. Apparently, and at the time I was fully unaware of this, everybody was making fun of me because of the shoes I wore. Those are by the Mexican brand 'Panam', that were given to me by my host in Chihuahua, and in that community are only worn by women. And besides I was wearing shorts because it was too damn hot outside which most likely made me look a gringo. Despite their mockery, I was more than happy to have seen such a community. It got better the next two days, though.

Jorge was going to stay for two days in a community called Guachochi (Wa-tsho-tshi) to supposedly help the people harvest corn and beans. I hesitated not one second to accompany him. First we had to drive 45 minutes to the community we had gone to the previous day, in order to to walk an hour from there to Guachochi because you need a robust 4x4 to nail the road up there. On the road we followed, kids walk
to go to school, women to buy groceries and men to find cheap labor elsewhere. The surrounding scenery was amazing. I wish I could upload some pictures to show you, but since I shoot in highest resolution and uploading one damn picture on this lousy website takes a whole week, I'll postpone it to another day when I have more time, or more patience. Time I have plenty, so that's no excuse, I know. After the one-hour hike we finally arrived at the village counting only about 100 inhabitants. The first man we meet is Roberto, who runs the village groceries store. He would let us sleep in there. A funny thing about meeting a local like him is that, when you start up a conversation, you first talk about minor things like the weather, harvest, or about anything like a car or food. That doesn't seem too strange. But the long, uncomfortable silences in between and the useless repeats of just brought-up subjects make it kind of awkward. At least for me. Because they don't seem to show any sign of uncomfortableness. And when there's absolutely nothing to add, they resort to "está bien, está bueno", meaning "it's alright, it's all good", or "así es", "that's right". That only happens in the beginning of conversations, as if things first have to warm up. But all in all, the Tarahumaras aren't the most talkative people. They live by the very essence of life, which translates in their housing, habits, food and leisures. Unlike us, materialized and hasty sons of bitches, their unmentioned motto chimes 'less is more'. The houses consist mostly of two rooms with the minimum of necessary furniture like a table, a little bench and of course the beds. Chairs are redundant since one can sit on the floor too. Each house also has a calentón or improvised fireplace at its disposal that functions as a stove, frying pan and above all as a heat source since temperatures drop considerably at nighttime. Their diet, depending on the time of harvesting, is limited to corn tortillas, beans and other plantlike vegetables. Meat is only eaten on celebration days. However, globalization is everywhere and hits even the tiniest communities in the most remote areas. In the community store, that guy Roberto runs, people can buy instant noodle soups, cookies, crisps by well-known brands and of course, sadly, coca-cola. Outside the store, next to the entrance, hangs a medium-sized Pepsi advertising poster. Those goddamn Nazis are everywhere! I tell you that. Anyhow, as I was saying, their daily activities consist of, also depending on the time of the year, seeding, picking corn and beans, working at their houses, etc. Kids go to community schools often far-distanced from their houses, and play with the little things they have. They also help the parents whenever work has to be done. Women, as you could have guessed, dedicate their lives to cook, wash, take care of the kids, and walk long distances to nearby towns and villages to buy groceries or sell handicrafts. The stereotypical and ancient gender role is still very contemporary and seems like it will be like that for many, many years. Men do the 'hard work' on the field, or, the worst case, commute to far-off cities and fields owned by big landowners to sustain their families. When there's time to relax, or to celebrate any type of occasion, the villagers get in action among others to prepare tezuino, a corn-based beer-like beverage. If there's tezuino in the make, or if it's around, excitement fills up the air. Men and women get together, although separated from each other, to drink, talk and dance. During celebrations dancing forms an important part of the ritual. Also, tongues loosen up more and as a result they get drunk. As you can see, alcoholism, or the need to get shit-faced as I like to call it, is omnipresent. It is not a product from our depraved modernized society - which it truly is - but rather a human, earthly need to escape harsh reality.

I almost forgot telling you about it. We were there to assist them with whatever they needed help with. However, Juan, another farmer of that village, subtly declined our offer to help him because we {city boys} would cut off our hands. Eventually, he came around and accepted our help. It wasn't all too hard. We just had to cut corn plants, or whatever you may call them, so that new corn can grow. When that was done Juan invited us to his house to have dinner. That was probably the most beautiful moment I experienced over there. The little food they had, from which five girls and two parents ate of, they shared with us. Well, in fact, it wasn't that little. But, I didn't dare to take more even though the man offered to. At that moment I felt incredibly honoured, humble, insignificant perhaps. The only seat opportunity they had, a kid-sized bench for two, Juan offered it to us while he sat on a turned-over bucket. Now try to return them the favour for that! I could only say 'thank you very much', but not too much because it would lose its strength after countless repeats. That and self-consciousness reminding me of how small I am.
Jorge and I also helped Roberto and his family picking corn in the early morning of the next day. Although it seems like a monotonous job, it feels meditating because you're out in nature, under a burning sun, with smell of fresh dawn in your nostrils and the warmth of the family cooperating. It's nothing like rotting away by an assembly line where you are ruled by the clock. He too invited us into his house for coffee. In exchange, we gave them cookies, bread and instant Mexican soup. It was all sharing. In those two days, I learned three essential words: Kwíra (Hi), Matéteraba (thank you) and arióshiba (bye). I said matéteraba a lot.

And so it was time to return to our comfortable house with cosy beds, central heating, refrigerator and T.V. Surprisingly the switch from a simple, rural environment to a more materialized, lantern-lit town wasn't too bad. I guess I'd have to stay longer in a community to feel the change. Anyway, those three days tasted like more. For now I'll just keep hovering around, from city to city, from town to town. But there will be time I'll settle down in such community where people go to bed at 20:30 and wake up torturingly early at sunrise. A place with no computers, T.V.'s or McDonalds. Although, it would not surprise if those modern Nazis erect a McDo from the ground somewhere in a valley. The Cola man has already showed up...

Monterrey continued/ Chihuahua

2010-10-14T09:56:00.000-07:00

Actually, my previous post wasn't finished yet, but the last sentence of it that rolled out of my pen - I mean keyboard - sounded like a nice ending. But anyway,...

The first two nights I stayed in that hotel my uncle had payed for me. At first, it felt comfortable. Too comfortable. So I switched to Couchsurfing, an excellent online community for 'alternative' travelers, to find a person to host me for a couple of days. The first one to accept my reply was a young fellow named Jozabad, or Joza for friends. A self-proclaimed hippy in mind, a decent employee and occasional outburst drunk, Joza let me stay at his grandparents' house for a couple of days. Well, a few days turned quickly into 10 days. How? First of all, his ability to make you feel welcome and his gang of jolly friends who do likewise. But most of all, it's his grandparents who without consideration accept a foreign traveler into to their house as one of their own. In fact, they're already used to receiving backpacking trotters from all over the world thanks to their grandson, who offers them accommodation. The following ten days I didn't only go out and explored the city, but I hung out with Joza's friends and lived together with his grandparents and sisters. No wonder a week went by without realizing it...

The part of living together with them was perhaps the most interesting one. Usually, when I'm out traveling I have this urge to go out as quickly as possible out of fear of not seeing everything I wish to see. But in this house that was slightly different. I would wake up, get up, and walk into the kitchen where Grandma or Grandpa was preparing lunch. I'd start talking to them about I don't what anymore and help in anyway possible. If I wasn't useful in the kitchen, Joza's little sister Michelle would keep me entertained. Only 8 years old, it feels like you're talking to an adult. She showed me a few of her songs on my guitar, which were awful since she was not playing any actual chords or melodies, but made me laugh nonetheless. Like any child, she would never stop talking and coming up with new ideas until one of her family members would shut her up. I didn't mind. Perhaps the most comical member of the family was Don Jesus, the grandfather. He would start talking about the old days when he would go drinking with his pals after work and return completely shitfaced, only to find his wife upset again. It came to that point, he told me laughingly, that on Fridays before he went off to work the weekend his wife would give him a few extra pairs of pants and shirts because the man would not return home until Monday, tired of working and binge drinking with his colleagues. Now that's what I call true love. Hours would pass on like that until my host Joza would return from work and pick me up to go visiting places or meet up with friends. Honestly, I didn't mind staying at home at all. I truly enjoyed hanging out with his family who took care of me more than I would ever expect from them. Their unselfishness and willingness to receive a stranger into their household only inspires me to do the same to others. As a poor traveler, I can hardly repay their goodness, regretfully. Being eternally grateful doesn't seem enough in this case. I can only do the same what they did to me and therefore start an unmalicious circle of receiving and giving help. That's why the couchsurfing project is perfect in its essence, which can be simplified to Karma. Unfortunately, the reality is different for this world is sometimes too crooked to sustain that thought. Positiveness is too often crushed by genuine negativeness. "The world is crashing down?" Maybe, but until that happens, it's imperative too stay positive, only it were for just a short period of time. Living purely and eternally positive, on the other hand, makes one naive and turn away from reality. It's a choice one has to make: think negative always and end up being a grouchy, wretched old person, stay naively on the bright side of life and be confronted by the hazards of reality, or hover somewhere in between, swinging like a pendulum from one side to another whatever situation you're in. I think I'll opt for the last.

...

Few, did I just write that? Fuck. Well, I'll turn to a lighter subject: Chihuahua. I arrived to the capital of the homonymous state past Monday. The bus ride was interesting because for eleven hours continuously the bus driver played one awfully dubbed Hollywood smash hit movie after the other, which made reading or listening to music at normal volume difficult. It was either being brainwashed by Hollywood cinema or sleeping. Good thing I was tired from the night before...

As in Monterrey, I request a couch and very easily found one. Roberto, a 32-year old white collar cooperative/dreamy traveler has been hosting me for the last couple of days. As his first couchsurfer, he has received me very well taking me for beers every night. During the day he nods 'yes' indisputably to his colleagues and trains his under-positioned newcomers, while at night he changes uniform to fetch a few beers in an unfashionable bar. Along the way, Roberto has learned to balance his cooperative alter ego with his real self. I've learned from him that not every company slave thinks like a company slave, but cherishes a much more interesting life beyond the office walls. It gives me hope for the future. On the positive-negative scale his pendulum leans more towards positive side. "La vida es rica y se tiene que disfrutarla", goes his motto (Life is rich and is to be enjoyed). Right on, brother!

The city is a typical Mexican city with a glorious cathedral, cozy plazas, labyrinth-like markets selling anything from fake Rolex's to cream-covered corn on a stick, cheap food stands, beggars, indigenous mothers and children on the ground, assertive vendors, and - at least in this part of the country - monotonous norteño music blazing from speakers on every corner of the street. If not visiting museums, reading or playing the guitar, I'm just wandering through the streets and immerse myself in Mexican frenzy. It's a nice city to hang around for a few days. This might be my last stop in an urban area before shipping off to Creel, a small mountainous village near the Barranca Del Cobre, the Mexican equivalent of America's Grand Canyon. It is said and written that many backpackers go there to hike through the canyons and meet the local indigenous people, the Tarahumaras, who have not changed since centuries. Sounds promising. It feels about time to go into the nature for while. Or at least escape a city's madness.

Monterrey, Mexico: Just like coming home.

2010-10-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

The bus ride from Austin to Monterrey was an interesting experience. The deparure of my bus was scheduled for 14:15. In theory I came just in time to buy a ticket and hop on. But since the company is Mexican based, all their buses are on Mexican time. They're not late, they're on Mexican time, which is a huge difference. So we departed half an hour late. No big deal. It happens. But then, after an hour or so, the bus driver made his first stop at a Burger King. Of course, the majority of the passengers went in for their daily portion of healthy grease and fat, which resulted in yet another delay. I preferred to stay on the clean side (actually, more on the cheap side) and stick to my peanuts, half a pack of orange flavored cookies and one third of a bottle of water. That got me pretty much through the first half of the journey. From there on, we drove straight up to Laredo, a border town with Mexico. One of the reasons why I wanted to start this trip in the U.S. and not in Mexico - besides visit the cool city of Austin - was to experience the transition at the border from the former to the latter. And what an experience it was...

We arrive at the border and at first it seems the passage flows easily. But then we queued up in a huge line of buses, all of them wanting to cross the border. There was absolutely no movement in that line. The reason for it was that customs officers were replaced by the Mexican military and they were ordered to examine every piece of luggage that passengers carried. Each and every one of them. Not once, but twice. First via a scanner and afterwards by hand. And believe me, there were a lot of buses. So we're waiting there and the bus driver asks us where we come from. From all seven or so passengers there were two foreigners: a very amicable American woman in her fifties and me. We had to get off and pass through the customs office were would receive our stamp. While I was waiting outside in the warm glow of Mexican autumn I gazed head-up to an enormous copy the Mexican flag waving proudly at the very beginning of its territory and felt happy. Almost patriotic. Or better, melancholic. Because I might be the least patriotic person in the world. Looking up to that flag made me feel: "I am home."

Anyway, it was my turn to receive a stamp. I walk in this tiny shack and find a hord of jolly customs officials tranquilly eating their phone-delivered meals with the TV on. Right after me one of their runner boys walked in with the drinks they had ordered. Nothing pointed out that I was in a formal, strict environment until one of the guys asked me where I was from and what I was doing. Half talking to 'the boys', half dedicating his attention to me, I received not a stamp but a little note on which says I'm permitted in to the country. Actually, in retrospective, is wasn't more than: "Oh, ehm, right. You wanna enter Mexico? Well, here you go. Don't do anything wrong. Now lemme eat." And that was that. Don't expect a similar scene when you're entering the U.S.

That was the easy part. After that the bus driver, all agitated and out of patience, gathered us around him because he had a plan to avoid the long queue. "Santo desmadre, esto está rete atorado" (Holy chaos, this is hopelessly stuck), he sighed. He ordered us to pick up all our luggage and move silently in groups of two in between the the buses towards the luggage-checking. That way he would have an empty bus end therefor let through more rapidly than his collegues, whose buses were packed. Meanwhile I was translating his evil, cheeky briefing. Eventually, all that fuzz wasn´t necessary because he somehow convinced a military officer to let us through before the others. (Might he have bribed him?) We stood in line - which again took a very long time - had our bags checked and got on to the bus. The bus driver was clearly at the very end of his patience because he almost ordered me to get in. For just a few seconds he was Speedy Gonzalez with an overweight problem and a line too much in his nostrils. I loved that guy. The whole debacle lasted about two hours, increasing our already shameful delay. In that same town but at the other side of the river we changed to the bus that would take us to Monterrey, final stop. The last 2 and a half hours went by fluently and before I knew it we had arrived.

On the way to Monterrey I had managed to call one of my many cousins, Mariana, who in her turn called my uncle to tell him I was arriving in town. Secretely, I was hoping that my uncle Nacho, who lives and works in Monterrey, would host me without doubt. That turned out to be slightly different. I was waiting outside the bus station when suddenly he appears. My rejoicing of seeing him after five years was of short notice. First, he told me he had paid a hotel room for one night because he pratically didn't know what to do with me. Upon that I asked him whether it was possible to stayat his place. His answer was far from clear. It went something like this: "At my place? Oh, no. Ehm, that's not possible because, ehm, my work, and, you know, no, it's difficult." In other words, forget it. Later that week I learned, distracted as I am, that the man has a second family here on top of his other family in Guadalajara, thus meaning he has a second wife and perhaps her children. We, the family in Guadalajara, always knew it was something like that. Disgracefully, that's how it works for a great deal of Mexican families. A man marries a certain woman who is assigned to him by another family and bears his children in order to meet society's expectations. This is the 'perfect' family. Meanwhile, the husband's inherent machismo longs for more feminine pleasure and scavenges for a voluptuous mistress with whom he can do as he likes in all discretion, and perhaps procreating a second family. That was the case with my late grandfather too.

Anyhow, my point was that I couldn't stay at his home, most likely out of fear for scandalism. After he rejected my host request he immediately started to implement an indoctrination of fear on me. Apparently, and this is true, Monterrey is a fairly dangerous city for its narcotraffic-related violence. I was well informed on that matter way before my trip. The north of Mexico is in fact endangered, but that doesn't stop me from exploring it. Caution is a traveler's second best friend. Still, uncle Nacho didn't stop emphasizing how risky this town is and how worried he was. I tried to soothe him, without succes. He also told me that most of my family is worried about me for my way of traveling. I fully understand and appreciate it, but it shows their not known with this way of getting around. He paid for my first meal - a delicious Mexican style hotdog - and brought me to the hotel. I talked for a while with the guy behind the desk and went up to my room. There, in my confined space, I lay alone contemplating my arrival. It was one of two sentiments: on one hand, I was happier than ever to be back in good 'ole Mexico, but at the other hand, I didn't know how to process the whole thing with my uncle. I gave it a rest, and tried to focus on the bright side: I'm in Mexico.

Austin: looking for a desert that's not there

2010-09-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, welcome to my report of my happy travels. I'm short in time, so I'll cut the story up in pieces. That way I can use cliffhangers and all. Yeah Awesome!

I'm sorry.

Hmm, where to start? Well, it all starts in Brussels International Airport one week ago. I've traveled by plane several times and I've obviously been many times in that airport before. But, I never had to worry about a thing since my parents took care of the whole ordeal. Now I was on my own. So I get there and of course I spent first half an hour to find the right check-in desk. Once I found it - and it still wasn't the one - I discovered you need to give an address if you are to travel to the glorious nation of US and A. Surprise! Of course I didn't have one. So, I paid 6 euros to look on the internet for a random address in Austin in order to actually enter the U.S. Then, at the correct check-in desk I am given a first taste of the madness of America's jolly security measurements. I'm there, standing in line, minding my own business, when this over friendly guy comes up to me and starts asking me silly questions. First off: "Who is the owner this luggage you're carrying? Is it yours?" - Ehm, no, it's my dog's. "Do you carry any object that can be considered or can be used as a fatal weapon?" - Perhaps my nail trimmer? And so and so on. It got better when I landed in Atlanta. After that interesting inquiry I went up to my gate and tried to catch some sleep because basically I hadn't slept all night. Of course not. I prefer to pass my last night in Belgium with friends than in bed and then risk the danger of not waking up in time. Oh dear, self-knowledge is the key to wisdom.

On the plane I'm immediately introduced to typical Americans receptiveness. A nice fellow tried to convince me to go to Nashville instead of Austin. He even gave me his phone number and address. He was friendly, only I stayed cautious. He was telling me about 17 and 18 year olds from Europe coming to his house to study or something. "Aaw, there all so grown-up now", he said with a disturbing smile. That's when I started thinking. Or maybe I'm just talking nonsense and this guys really has no bad intentions. Hmm, it's sad that this cruel world has shaped my thoughts like that. But you know, you can't be to careful nowadays.

Whatever, don't take it too seriously.

In Atlanta I didn't have that much time to catch my other flight to Dallas. But thanks to the increased security measurements I arrived at my gate just 10 minutes before take-off. Now, I understand that fluids can be an important ingredient or a potential bomb. But prohibiting me of taking a bottle of water, yes, WATER, to the aircraft is not fun. Moreover, it is a violation of a basic human right. But then again, I guess that charter of Human Rights is worth an empty jar of expired peanut butter at customs. Oh, and the coolest part of wandering in a U.S. airport is one, you get to take of your shoes so you lose more time and two, your fingers and eyes are scanned so that you wind up in their list of foreign visitors who can be potentially dangerous for the safety of U.S. citizens. How about that? Oh well, I suppose it's all necessary for our safety abroad. I tried to look at it with some humor. But that's kind of difficult if you have only ten minutes to catch your flight.

Once in Dallas, I encountered a wholly new adventure. Namely, finding the bus station. Luckily the bus drivers were all very friendly once they saw the lost stranger look in my eyes. It even got to the point where this bus driver called Jason helped me out with finding that bus station. He gave me a free ride AND a day-pass to cover all transport. "You know what, take this. To help you on your journey." That is a very pleasant way to start a trip, I must say. So I got to the bus station in Dallas and booked the first ticket to Austin. Sometimes it felt like Mexico already. Mexicans are everywhere. And Negroes too. A lot! (My apologies to anyone who feels offended by that choice of word. I just like it. I think a "colored person" is more offensive.)
In that bus station I spent my very first dollars on a bottle of water that I didn't get. Those damn machines... Anyway, I arrived in Austin at around midnight and didn't know where the fuck to go. The surroundings told me I wasn't anywhere near the center. I walked around and looked for a good place to sleep. Luckily it was still pleasantly warm so it wasn't really a bummer.

Eventually I slept in a secluded corner of a parking lot. I figured starting the next early would be a good idea of finding a place to stay for few days. And thus, I get up and take the first bus downtown. "Do you go to the center of the city, sir?" - "Huh? What? Oh, Downtown you mean?", "Uhm, yeah whatever." So I hop on and 40 minutes later the bus driver tells me that's how far he can take me. I managed to find one of the main avenues ánd something that could be a considered a city map. I had an address of hostel which by then was my only reference point. So I start walking in what I thought was the right direction, until suddenly a girl accompanied by a hispanic type asks me from behind my back where I'm from. We start smalltalking and after five minutes I had scored a place to stay. Well, I didn't do much actually. The girl, name: Sammi, offered me to stay at her place instead of the hostel. I couldn´t have been more lucky. There I was, at 7 AM, not knowing anybody or anything, and suddenly this guardian angel appears from out of the blue. Was I extremely lucky? Was it Karma? Or pure coincidence? Anyhow, it was the best that could happen to me.

The next ten days I stayed at her place. I hung out with her friends, explored Austin's magnificent Green Belt and smoked a lot pot thanks to Casey, who I like to refer as Mr. Bong. Austin has it all: a cosey center mainly around Sixth street, lots of bars, live music everywhere, little shanty markets, preppy show-off girls 'n boys, bizarre characters that talk to themselves and nature. Yes, green nature. In Texas. I was surprised too. When I think of Texas I think of desert, rednecks with a heavy accent and a good sense for retarded politics. Well, that's everything Austin is not. But mostly I was amazed by its green beauty in and around the city. One has to drive maybe 15-20 minutes to go swimming in a creek totally secluded by lush trees and high hills. It feels like you're far away from urban area, but it's not. Instead, you can go camping in the woods, swim a little, hike for miles, return home, take a shower and go out at night to catch a premium local band in of the many live music bars around. And in Antwerp they closed a very fine live music bar because of noise pollution. Jeezus, what are we? An Amish community?

Well ladies and gentlemen, that's about it for now. More is to follow for sure. Yesterday I arrived in Monterrey, my beloved Mexico. The bus ride from Austin to here is worth a whole post so stay tuned for more! I hope y'all enjoyed the first part. Sorry if you think it's too long. But you know, ... whatever.

Hasta la proxima!

P.S.: Oh right, pictures will follow shortly.

First Draft...

2010-09-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, werkt dit???