once upon a buffalo in mexico

Viva Mexico! Viva la Independencia!

One minute we are speeding past men riding donkeys, then we're into a city, pastel-colored buildings suspended overhead

The Daily News (Halifax)
Sunday, March 17, 1991
By Tim Carlson

THE SCORPION WAS dead. The lizard escaped. I took one good swing at the rat with a stick meant to hold the cabana window shut, but it was far too quick for me.

An all but sleepless night.

I awoke a few hours later, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore of Zipolite calming any distemper that might have lingered from my battle with the cabana critters.

At 9 a.m., the sands of Zipolite are hot enough to encourage the least athletic to jog from under thatched roofs, where some travelers sleep the night in hammocks, down to the water's edge.

In Zipolite, a sparsely populated stretch of Mexico's Pacific coastline about 100 km south of surfer haven Puerto Escondido, it's difficult to remember what day it is, not that it matters. The word "resort" doesn't come readily to mind. It's the perfect last port after a low-budget trip through the interior.

It seems Mexican-years from Mazatlan, where the cheapest possible flight from Canada set me down a month before.

MAZATLAN

Mazatlan's Golden Zone hotel strip is brochure Mexico -- more American than Mexican, beach fashion on parade -- although Old Mazatlan, with a beautiful cathedral, small parks and lively market is a realistic primer to life in cities that aren't so dependent on tourism.

Mazatlan was the only place in the country where I saw white trash tourists screaming their lungs out at cab drivers in an attempt to get the fare quoted in English.

The package holiday set usually sticks close to the beach, getting second-degree burns and trying to ignore droves of Mexicans hawking bracelets, blankets, hats and hammocks. Out on the street, hucksters offer free breakfast scams where condo or hotel promoters try to determine the limit on your Visa card.

Nightlife in Mazatlan is a tropical version of the American disco -- dancing to the same Fine Young Cannibal/Madonna/Janet Jackson rotation offered at home.

Except different.

A bar in one of the better hotels, right on the beach: The bar is packed with people dancing -- on the bar, that is. More people dance half-heartedly on the bleachers encircling the bar, gawking around, waiting for something to happen.

A couple up on the circular bar does a bump 'n' grind to a Madonna song. The guy grabs a funnel hanging from a rope attached to the roof, he yells something into the woman's ear, she puts the tube to her lips and he up-ends a Corona in the funnel.

Once the beer is splashed all over her clothes and the people below, she grabs the rope and the guy pushes her off the bar. The idea is to play Jane of the Jungle and land safely on the other side. But her foot connects with the head of the Mexican bartender, who goes down like a George Foreman victim.

Down on the beach, the moon's reflection riding the Pacific waves, a man stands with his horse, looking up at the bar wondering if there will be any takers for the romantic moonlight ride he offers.

ZACATECAS

Fate encouraged me not to leave Mazatlan, but I resisted.

Although first class bus schedules, prices and choice of companies in Mexico were very impressive, the first ticket I bought was for a bus that simply did not exist. After a long hassle (in which I learned the Spanish for refund) I ended up going second class.

On first-class buses, there is usually a small portrait of the Virgin above the windshield; on second-class buses it's somewhat more elaborate. Sometimes it's an entire shrine. The driver gets on, crosses himself, and we're off.

Durango is only 200 km east of Mazatlan, but the steep, beautiful mountains rising to 2,000 metres in between make this an eight-hour journey of competing portable radios, kilometres of litter-filled ditches, sputtering up one side of the mountain and careering crazily down around corners (often on the wrong side of the road).

Don't let the stereotype get to you, I console myself. These guys drive this route all the time. They probably have master's degrees in career- ing crazily.

But in the foothills not far from Durango, the bus slows. Up ahead is a dented semi-trailer. Wooden pallets are strewn all over the highway. We finally ease ahead, past another bus, the front bashed in all the way up to the first passenger's seat.

In the Durango bus depot, there are more than a few long, bandaged faces.

I count my blessings, but I'm quickly distracted by some delicious roast chicken, which also makes me forget about the time change. I miss the connection to Zacatecas and must wait for the next bus.

A city of 200,000, Zacatecas is in a valley wedged between two small mountains. Walking the streets is more like climbing stairs. The spire of an incredible cathedral of pink sandstone (built between 1612 and 1752) rises in the centre of the city.

The Spaniards started mining silver here in 1548, but the Zacateco Indians were at it long before that. Men ended up dying in the shafts while "employed" trying to keep up with their conquerors' fervor for the precious metal.

Coal cars take you down inside El Eden Mine, where you then walk through tunnels and over wooden bridges, the guide pointing to the flooded shafts below and relating how small children working there met a premature end. Heart rending stuff.

Then the guide flips a switch to turn on an electric waterfall, which scares the hell out of everyone, and he sits back and laughs. That's the only one of his jokes that translated well.The mouth of the mine is above the city on one of the mountains. If there is no wind, a cable car runs from the mine, over the city, to the opposite mountain, Cerro de la Bufa. Here there is a church, museum and monuments dedicated to revolutionary Pancho Villa and friends who won a major battle here in 1914.

At night, the view from the Bufa, high above the colonial city, is spectacular. I was with two women from Texas and the Mexican guys they'd met the evening before, drinking rum on a terrace by the museum. My guidebook said a portrait of the Madonna in the nearby chapel, La Capilla de la Virgen del Pattrocinio, could heal the sick. One of the Mexican guys, David, said some believe the entire building was capable of similar miracles.

We ended up at El Elephante Blanco Disco only because the bar down inside El Eden mine was (supposedly) the scene of a shoot-up the night before. I met a dozen relatives of David's there, all who were interested in getting work in Montreal.

With a few empty rum bottles on the table at the end of the night, one of the Texan women (who taught English in Guadalajara for a few years) was comparing Mexican and Texan culture.

"I'd never marry a Texan man," she said as David stroked her hair. "They're too closed-minded. Mexican men are so much more sensitive."

GUANAJUATO

One minute, we're speeding past men riding donkeys, cactus as high as the bus poking out of the dust. Then we're down into a city with old subterranean tunnels and a maze of twisting streets with the backs of pastel-colored buildings suspended overhead.

Guanajuato feels like a chunk of not colonial, but medieval, Spain inhabited by Mexicans. And although the tourists (they're the ones standing on street corners trying to find 'up' on the map) are slightly more plentiful than Zacatecas, this odd place is great fun to get lost in.

Guanajuato is also a colonial silver mining town, protected from development by a federal order designating it a national monument.

The revolutionary hero here is Father Miguel Hidalgo who in 1810 led his rebels with some success over Spanish troops in and around Guanajuato and Zacatecas and sparking the independence movement. Their first major victory was burning down a large grain storage house called the Alhondiga de Granaditas that the enemy was using as headquarters.

Hidalgo was caught and executed a year later and his head was put in a cage which hung from a corner of the building for over a decade.

The Alhondiga is now a museum. Bright murals dealing with the Hidalgo legend cover the walls of the landing between floors, statues of the revolution's protagonists are given heroic space. And the cage in which Hidalgo's head decomposed hangs in a room for all to see.

The Alhondiga is the most historically significant museum in Guanajuato, but probably not the busiest. The home of Diego Rivera, famous muralist (whose Mexico City home is where Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky was murdered) is preserved for art pilgrims.

The Don Quixote museum celebrates the Man of La Mancha year-round with depictions of the man in every conceivable form -- sculpture, paintings, sketches, snuff boxes, all the way to plastic toys.

It's fascinating -- Quixote is depicted as Christ figure in one painting, or in a Second World War or post-nuclear context in others. Like depictions of Christ in art, every artist has his or her idea of what the man's facial hair was like -- a well-clipped Van Dyke, gigantic handlebar moustache, or a wild, flowing beard. A teenager in military uniform with an automatic rifle follows patrons through the various galleries.

The Alhondiga and Quixote museums, however, hardly compare in either civic pride or tourist chatter to the Museo Mo- mias, which my guide book called "the quintessential example of Mexico's obsession with death."

The Museo's history began in the 1890's when the powers that were told the poor to exhume their ancestors because they couldn't afford the grave tax. When the coffins came out, they found not skeletons, but well-preserved mummies -- human husks with hair, genitalia and fingernails often intact.

Once the shock subsided, the commerce began, with people charging curious visitors to see the remains of great-granddad. The authorities found this embarrassing until the entrepreneurial spirit caught up with them too -- and now there's a nice climate-controlled building with a fine selection of dehydrated zombies under glass.

I had a hint of what was to come from the Momias postcards on sale at every store. As horrific as their expressions are, there's something most amusing about these flaking cadavers. One expects to be revolted in the presence of such an anthology of death, but after the first few cases those sickly tourist faces give way to smiles.

A smiling male momia, clad only in a pair of leather boots, seems frozen mid-jig, doing a death-defying dance in his own grave. There's a special case reserved for severed heads and infants, and a fading photo gallery of pics showing people posing with the recently exhumed.

Souvenirs (and there's a Disney-scale selection, everything from Momias key chains to piggybanks) are available in the dozens of booths outside.

In the Mercado Hidalgo, two men, sides of pork slung over their shoulders, go between the cramped stalls, throwing them down with a dead-meat slap on the butcher's counter. All kinds of vegetables, candy, clothing, sombreros and tourist junk are for sale in the two-floor complex. Dogs run around licking the floor beside the fruit juice stand or the counter where a woman carves up cow hearts and livers.

It was time for Montezuma's Revenge to hit, and it did, with no subtlety whatsoever.

Five days, in retrospect, isn't a long enough stay in Guanajuato but, like most travelers on a budget, the promise of another new, exotic stimuli is only a dilapidated school bus away.

OAXACA

Mexico is getting more expensive, especially in the resorts and the rapidly industrializing northern states. But that doesn't mean there aren't still good deals to be had for the budget traveler.

In Oaxaca I stayed at Casa Arnel where a room, opening on a courtyard full of tropical plants, flowers and parrots, cost less than $6. My dive in Mazatlan, complete with mosquitoes coming through the torn screen, was double the price.

It's still possible to live in Mexico on $10-15 a day, staying in budget hotels and buying food at the market. Another $5 a day will provide luxuries like a hot shower in your room and a meal or a few drinks at a zocalo cafe in the evening.

Oaxaca is an eight-hour bus ride south of Mexico City -- a long time to spend on any bus -- but first class on any major route in Mexico is as bearable as it gets. The buses are as modern and generally cleaner than any in Canada. Mexico to Oaxaca was 25,000 pesos ($12 Cdn). A flight would be about $50 one-way or $25 (luxury class) on the train.

Going on the ground gives you a chance to see the Mexico that rarely shows up in travel articles and tourist literature. Stopping in small villages with sprawling shanty towns, women and children yell up at the bus windows, offering tamales, sandwiches, corn chips, Coke or coffee so sweet it shouldn't be sold to anyone without a dental plan.

The Oaxaca markets are at least a one-day diversion even for those who hate shopping. There are two large indoor markets near the zocalo. One is a crowded maze of food, textiles and leatherwork. The other is for prepared meals -- like a precursor to the modern shopping mall food court with ma & pa lunch counters rather than burger chains.

Each different food stall or fonda is painted a different primary color, with stools, a counter and stove behind. There are a few specialties, but every operation is required to have Oaxaca's traditional hot chocolate. Hershey's it ain't. Unsweetened, but spiced with cinnamon -- it's served in large bowls with sweet white buns for dipping.

Chocolate also makes into other dishes, especially sauces like mole Oaxaqueno (chilis, bananas, chocolate, cinnamon, and pepper) served over chicken. Spend a few dollars at this place, and you don't have to worry about food for the rest of the day.

The best pottery, folk art, serapes, hammocks and textiles, brought in mainly by women from the surrounding villages, are for sale on the street. These people like to barter, unlike the indoor markets where the price tags rule. Another large indoor market is located near the second-class bus depot, a half-hour walk from the zocalo. The piles of fruit and vegetables are maintained with obvious pride and considerable architectural skill.

MITLA, TEOTITLAN de VALLE

An air-conditioned tour bus goes straight to the Mitla ruins, bypassing the weaving and mezcal shops in the town itself. The weaving shops are a fascinating cottage factory usually consisting of only one or two workers. Young men dressed only in Adidas shorts, drenched in perspiration, stand weaving serapes by stepping on the pedals that form the pattern, their hands reaching overhead to cords that throw the shuttle back and forth across the warp. Imagine pre-industrial revolution Nautilus equipment.

The Mitla ruins make up in detail what the lack compared to Monte Alban's vast grandeur. Intricate patterns line the walls built as late as the 13th Century A.D. The patterns aren't carved, but composed of separate stones fitted together like large stone Leggo. It's estimated that more than 100,000 pieces were used on the main building alone.

When the Spaniards arrived they plunked down a church, San Pablo, in the middle of Mitla's main square. It's a small church, weather-beaten, not that distinctive, but nothing could be a better symbol of the conquest.

On the way back to Oaxaca, I jumped off the bus and started walking up a side road to Teotitlan de Valle. Fortunately, some construction workers gave me a ride before the road got too steep.

Teotitlan is Mexico's prime stop for serapes, the entire town seemingly employed in the one craft. Whereas the people in the weaving shops at Mitla looked like factory workers, these craftsmen took their work at a slower pace.

ZIPOLITE

It's a good thing the scenery is nice between Oaxaca and the Pacific Coast, because second-class bus service is the only way to get there unless you fly.

Like the Mazatlan-Durango trip it takes eight hours to go 150 km, but through a quickly changing geography: from the hilly country near Oaxaca through dusty little towns, rising into red earth foothills, up to heavily-wooded foothills at an altitude of 3000 metres where palm-like trees meet the clouds. Then it descends to the dry coast. Iguana country.

As the bus boarded in Oaxaca, I discovered I'd lost my ticket, and had to buy another from the ticket-taker once we were on the road.

Half the people on the bus were searching for the idiot gringo's ticket. It was found during one of many food stops. I was refused a refund, which sparked an angry chorus of protest from the people I was sitting with. Unfazed, the ticket man told the peasants off in Spanish and left the bus.

The ticket was only worth about $5, but that's almost enough to live comfortably for a day in Zipolite, a four-km walk from Puerto Angel where the bus stops.

And a 4km-walk back, as I discovered when I tried to break my last 50,000 peso (about $45) note and nobody on the entire beach could give me change.

Zipolite was the perfect place to end the trip. There are no real "attractions" other than the waves and no history or architecture to marvel at. There's little to do but body surf, eat, drink, or lay in a hammock reading as a sow and column of piglets files by, followed by a few nude people, a bunch of chickens, some narcotics officers and a 50-year-old hippy with a spear gun and some fish on a chain.

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