Exchanging histomenes for history
10/11/2009 at 23:19 from (19.85, -101.033333)
Preparations for our San Blas departure began early. When I settled the bill with Pompi, he gave us a steep discount on our stay and wished us luck. We, in turn, left a tip and thanked him profusely for patiently teaching us (me) the basics of surfing. Despite the length of our stay and the degree to which we had settled in, we were showered, dressed, fully packed, and ready to leave within an hour of waking up.
It's a strange feeling being able to so readily abandon a place that had become a sort of home for us, but it's also incredibly liberating to have that degree of mobility. In spite of the various insect-related tribulations we had encountered in San Blas, it was still the first place we stood up on a wave, where we met some great friends, home to some great food, the staging point into our La Tobara adventure, and just an all around nice little town filled with nice people. All the same, we celebrated our new record and our escape from the jejenes with grins and kisses, then set out on foot for town, happy to be charting a course for new adventures.
Since the rest of the crew had opted to stay at a hotel near the zócalo the night before, we were on our own in leaving Stoner's. The sky was overcast, but that didn't seem to keep the heat from rising. In fact, if anything, it was even more humid than previous days. We chatted and cavorted in an attempt to ignore the heat and length of our walk. Our conversation did indeed shorten the trip and we found ourselves in town within a few minutes, albeit slicked in sweat and absolutely parched.
SIDEBAR:
While I might have mentioned it before, I'm sure I didn't elaborate on what a "zócalo" is. Essentially, most Spanish colonial towns were built around a central plaza, called the "zócalo". This is almost always used as a primary landmark in navigation, and directions in smaller towns are always given with reference to the zócalo, which is also commonly called "El Centro", the center. Invariably, one side of this main plaza is dominated by the town's cathedral, an intentional device used by the Spanish to enforce the central role of the church -- geographically and spiritually -- in daily life.
Larger towns often have many plazas, which are often referred to by the diminutive "plazuela" to denote their lower status in comparison to the primacy of the zócalo, or simply due to their smaller size. Mazatlán, for example, had a zócalo (where the cathedral was) as well as a plazuela just to the southwest that housed an important theatre and a bustling cafe scene.
As we walked toward the zócalo, which was still draped in decorations from Mexico's independence celebration a month earlier, we noticed the rest of the group leaving their hotel and heading our way. We waited for them, looking around for any business that might be open at this early hour and serving horchata. There were none, so we all made our way to the bus station, just on the other side of El Centro. We had several minutes until the next bus, so we dumped our things on the chairs, bought tickets, and attempted to air out our (my) sweat-soaked clothing.
Marijana expressed a burning desire for horchata, so I took off running toward the market, but, finding no horchata there (only bemused locals), I returned, sweatier and empty-handed. Moments later, we boarded the bus, an air-conditioned oasis so pleasant and necessary that I spent the next several minutes cooing and giggling my delight. Within a few minutes, my skin was again cool and comfortable, and my shirt was finally dry (although a little stiff and salty) after a week of unbroken sweating.
This new driver was slightly more sane than the last, and we left San Blas at a more reasonable speed than we had entered it. The jungle slipped by on either side of us, broken occasionally by some little town or another. We talked a little, but most of the ride passed by in relative silence as we sped toward Tepic through the dark of lush, rain-soaked forests and steep, cloud-covered hills.
When we finally emerged in Tepic, by the same route we had followed from Mazatlán, we hopped off the bus and strode into the station. Max, Marijana, and I headed to the Pacifico counter to get tickets to Morelia, while Christian and Malin bought onward passage to Mexico City. Christian was leaving a week later for Sweden, while Malin was interested in staying on a little longer and studying at one of the hundreds of language schools in and around the capital.
After the tickets were bought, we piled our stuff against the wall and talked as a group for a few minutes. Christian and Malin hugged us and we exchanged goodbyes, then they walked back out through security to the buses. We joked with Max for three or four minutes, then were surprised to see Christian and Malin run back into the terminal and over to their ticket counter. After a few moments of confused hand waving and negotiation, they walked back over toward us and explained that their seats had been double-booked and that they had to take a later bus to Mexico City... ours.
Delighted, we once again set out from the terminal as a group, this time boarding a first class bus bound for Morelia, then on to Mexico City. Seated in front of Marijana and I was a Latino guy who enthusiastically spoke to us in English. He had traveled from LA -- four solid days on buses -- and was on his way to visit his grandmother in Morelia. Raised in a Mexican-American household, Jonathan had no problems navigating a system where everything is in Spanish, but had gone for almost a week without speaking to anybody in English.
We chatted about his background (he's a successful tattoo artist and hopped on the bus on a whim after hearing his grandmother was ill) and Morelia (he had visited as a child and remembered the city as huge and beautiful). Along the way, we passed orchards, lava fields, and volcanoes in the distance. For miles in every direction, stretched out like a patchwork quilt, were hundreds of dusty blue agave fields, which serve as the main ingredient in the region's most famous export: tequila.
After several hours, we found ourselves on the outskirts of Guadalajara, a sprawling, hilly metropolis ringed by an almost endless series of factories and industrial parks. We cut through Guadalajara's heart to the bus station, where I hopped off to get some excellent yogurt and some mediocre tamales, before we were once again on the road.
The road from Guadalajara was considerably flatter, passing through long, fertile valleys and scrubby fields dotted with low trees and lined with flowers. By this point, traveler's fatigue had gotten the better of the group and Marijana, Christian, Malin, and Max drifted in and out of sleep. The road tilted ever upward and we began to feel the altitude gain as our ears popped. The scenery in the distance became more mountainous, with volcanoes and cones increasing in number and growing closer.
Just as we were beginning to get impatient about how long the drive was taking, the road forked and we took the exit up a steep hillside. A few miles in, we began descending rapidly into a picturesque and large city, Morelia. Jonathan squirmed excitedly in his seat as we rolled into the bus station on the outskirts of town. Christian and Malin disembarked with us, hugging us and exchanging goodbyes -- for the very last time, they promised -- before we walked into the terminal and they jumped back on the bus, bound for Mexico City.
We made a quick stop at the restrooms before heading to the taxi desk at the front of the terminal. For a mere 37 pesos (just under USD$3), we secured a ride to the historic center of the city. As darkness fell, we passed through the slummy area outside the bus station, past a tiny street fair with rides and children knotted around candy vendors, across a bridge clogged with traffic, and straight into historic old Morelia. Our taxi dropped us off on a darkened street, in front of the old colonial-era building that houses the Hotel Señorial, Morelia's cheapest accommodations.
As we entered, a pair of German girls warned us on their way out that the rooms were "grim" and "rough", but after a cursory investigation, we concluded that they weren't any worse than what we've stayed at before (perhaps a few more prostitutes than we'd like, but we aren't in any position to be picky), so the three of us opted for a large double with a bathroom. At a whopping 120 pesos per night, that came out to 40 pesos per person per night (about USD$3).
Marijana was feeling a little under the weather, so we left her in the room to sleep and Max and I struck out on our own, in search of food. We decided to head through the Plaza, both to get a better feel for the city and because everything on our dimly lit street seemed closed. As we rounded the corner of the city center, only a few blocks distant from our hotel, we were greeted by a wonderous sight: Morelia's storied cathedral, lit from below, surrounded by a mass of people that filled the entire plaza. The massive Avenido Madero was crowded with revelers and, along the fence that surrounds the cathedral, flat screen televisions depicted scenes from Mexico's independence as the soundtrack blared from speakers mounted to poles above the crowd.
Max and I waded in, stopping directly in front of the cathedral gates as the announcer thanked the crowd and congratulated Morelia on being so damn cool. Then, as classical music boomed and echoed across the stone and glass, fireworks exploded overhead and the crowd applauded. For several minutes, we were treated to an impressive display, with sparks raining down on our heads and thunderous eruptions detonating almost next to the ancient church.
After the show drew to a close, Max and I, now wide awake from our first encouter with Morelia, strolled with the crowds as they dispursed down the long avenues outward, toward Morelia's suburbs. The shops along our route, it seemed, had not grasped the obvious business opportunity afforded by this volume of foot traffic, and only a few bars and upscale restaurants remained open. After walking for a dozen or more blocks, we decided to cut our losses and circled back to a burger joint that looked inoffensive (Max refuses to eat pizza outside of Italy, on moral grounds, so we had to skip the amusing pizzarias, which were our only other cheap options). The burgers were surprisingly good, considering my previous experiences with Latin American hamburgers (Homero Burger, my bowels can never forget the scars you left!).
Content in every way, we turned our feet homeward, wondering aloud at the huge, historic stone buildings that seemed to line every street. By the time we got home, we fell fast asleep, joining Marijana in a contest to see whose snoring could most disturb the work of the girls upstairs.