Oaxaca
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Traveling is mostly about the journey, not the destination.
A lesson I had to put into practice this time, if I wanted it or not… After having celebrated Mexican carnival in Mérida, I packed my backpack to hit the road again.
A lesson I had to put into practice this time, if I wanted it or not… After having celebrated Mexican carnival in Mérida, I packed my backpack to hit the road again.
As a handful of Mexicans had guaranteed me that the road from Merida to Oaxaca was notoriously dangerous, I decided to do something I had never done before on this journey: pre-book an overpriced first class ADO-bus-ticket for about $US 35 (which includes a 50% discount) to bring this 22-hour journey to a safe ending. Instead of Merida I selected Campeche as my departure point to save some serious bucks, which meant I had to hitchhike down there first (3-hour drive) in order to take the bus around midnight. Alright, doable! My Couchsurfing host Jorge gave me a ride to a gas-station-slash-truckers-hangout and the first truck driver I spoke to seemed to be a match. He was on a full-day-full-night-strike to Puebla, passing Campeche. Great.
So… in the joke that’s called “Stephanie is going to Oaxaca” we have now a punchline coming up: I booked my trip 00:20 that day, which we thought was in the night… it’s not, it’s in the morning. FAIL!
My bus was looooong gone. A $35 fine for my own stupidity, fair enough. On the bright side, I was already sitting in a vehicle that was going aaaaaall the way to Puebla, which meant I could complete about ¾ of my trip with the hitchhike I just scored. So I settled with this solution, as it was the only option I got. And a great option it was:
Even though my friendly transporter stopped more often to drink tequila, knock back his cocaine-style pills (he didn't sleep for three days straight going to four) and flirt with the local damsels working in run-down local eateries and cantinas, this was a unique insight in the local truckers life.
My bus was looooong gone. A $35 fine for my own stupidity, fair enough. On the bright side, I was already sitting in a vehicle that was going aaaaaall the way to Puebla, which meant I could complete about ¾ of my trip with the hitchhike I just scored. So I settled with this solution, as it was the only option I got. And a great option it was:
Even though my friendly transporter stopped more often to drink tequila, knock back his cocaine-style pills (he didn't sleep for three days straight going to four) and flirt with the local damsels working in run-down local eateries and cantinas, this was a unique insight in the local truckers life.
For one day and one night I was part of a lifestyle that shapes the lives of so many men, but to which I never dedicated any proper thoughts. The dangers they have to face are a world away from any 9-to-5-office-job. After midnight we got stopped by some colleague-truckers who warned us not to continue driving… Some armed robberies had just taken place minutes ago on the quiet road we were about to take, gangsters literally taking the entire truck with everything in it.
As the police usually cooperates with these kind of practices, we had no safety net to fall back on. Needless to say, from that moment on I traveled with my old phone and musicplayer In my bra, one at the right and one at the left tit, a money-belt wrapped around my ass and my entire harddisk with all my blog back-ups shuffled into my tiny underwear… Yeah what, I’m not from the iCloud-generation. Tired from this stressful situation and all new impressions I finally passed out on the truckers’ bed behind the car seats, a luxury I for sure wouldn’t have had in the ADO bus.
As the police usually cooperates with these kind of practices, we had no safety net to fall back on. Needless to say, from that moment on I traveled with my old phone and musicplayer In my bra, one at the right and one at the left tit, a money-belt wrapped around my ass and my entire harddisk with all my blog back-ups shuffled into my tiny underwear… Yeah what, I’m not from the iCloud-generation. Tired from this stressful situation and all new impressions I finally passed out on the truckers’ bed behind the car seats, a luxury I for sure wouldn’t have had in the ADO bus.
On Valentine’s Day I got woken up when we arrived… somewhere. I’m pretty sure the place consisting of a remote gas station and some godforsaken canteen serving the worst coffee since the US partition has no definable geographical indication, but according to my trucker this was the best place to get a ride to Oaxaca. He was wrong, but he meant well.
Pretty quickly I hitched another ride to a more conveniently located gas station, where some religion fanatics driving down south to see the pope gave me free sandwiches and sodas (apparently I looked that shabby after travelling one full day and a night). From there another attentive trucker drove me five hours up to a freezing mountain village called La Fortuna, while during the ride treating me on a warm and oh so welcome roadside trucker-shower and dinner. As it was already getting dark I took a bus to the next village, Tehuacan (at last), to find out there were no buses leaving to Oaxaca until 2AM.
Pretty quickly I hitched another ride to a more conveniently located gas station, where some religion fanatics driving down south to see the pope gave me free sandwiches and sodas (apparently I looked that shabby after travelling one full day and a night). From there another attentive trucker drove me five hours up to a freezing mountain village called La Fortuna, while during the ride treating me on a warm and oh so welcome roadside trucker-shower and dinner. As it was already getting dark I took a bus to the next village, Tehuacan (at last), to find out there were no buses leaving to Oaxaca until 2AM.
Tehuacan didn’t seem the worst place to be stranded…
“Alright, let’s sleep here in the bus terminal on the floor”, my travel-fellow proposed. I had to process that information for a short instant. We were travelling for 40 hours straight and this guy wanted to sleep on the filthy floor of a freezing bus terminal under the shattering TL-light while a guy was already eyeing our belongings, in a town were for six bucks each you can get a shabby budget hotel room. Adiós. I gave him the look that didn’t require a verbal explanation. As the previous rooms in bus-terminal-hotels I stayed in either had cockroaches climbing out of the sink or an open toilet (without walls) located right next to the bed, I set my standards quite low.
I was positively surprised: A double bed, a kind-of-hot-shower and Wi-Fi. That it was located in a dark alley where we had to pass a puking drunkard and opened our door right at the point our neighbor shared the sounds of her screaming orgasm was of secondary importance: I had a bed and I was going to sleep the shit out of it.
Sleep is nice. The morning after I was ready for day #3 of my never-ending trip to Oaxaca. Within ten minutes posting along the highway another cheerful trucker slowed down his vehicle and invited me to come in. He was going to Oaxaca center: Those words almost made me kneel down at his feet. At last! Whatever Oaxaca City would be like, this last leg of my journey made everything worthwhile. Wow.
The landscapes that were about to pass my vision left me entirely speechless. THIS was the Mexico I dreamed off before ever setting one foot into this country… an image shaped by Western movies in which dark-haired mustached men with sombreros cross the endless reddish fields of dust and cactuses on their loyal horses, every now and then shooting in the air with their pistolas while shouting “olé”. Almost automatically Ennio Morricone’s legendary tune from ‘Once Upon A Time In The West’ echoed through my head, like a soundtrack for the entire road trip.
“Alright, let’s sleep here in the bus terminal on the floor”, my travel-fellow proposed. I had to process that information for a short instant. We were travelling for 40 hours straight and this guy wanted to sleep on the filthy floor of a freezing bus terminal under the shattering TL-light while a guy was already eyeing our belongings, in a town were for six bucks each you can get a shabby budget hotel room. Adiós. I gave him the look that didn’t require a verbal explanation. As the previous rooms in bus-terminal-hotels I stayed in either had cockroaches climbing out of the sink or an open toilet (without walls) located right next to the bed, I set my standards quite low.
I was positively surprised: A double bed, a kind-of-hot-shower and Wi-Fi. That it was located in a dark alley where we had to pass a puking drunkard and opened our door right at the point our neighbor shared the sounds of her screaming orgasm was of secondary importance: I had a bed and I was going to sleep the shit out of it.
Sleep is nice. The morning after I was ready for day #3 of my never-ending trip to Oaxaca. Within ten minutes posting along the highway another cheerful trucker slowed down his vehicle and invited me to come in. He was going to Oaxaca center: Those words almost made me kneel down at his feet. At last! Whatever Oaxaca City would be like, this last leg of my journey made everything worthwhile. Wow.
The landscapes that were about to pass my vision left me entirely speechless. THIS was the Mexico I dreamed off before ever setting one foot into this country… an image shaped by Western movies in which dark-haired mustached men with sombreros cross the endless reddish fields of dust and cactuses on their loyal horses, every now and then shooting in the air with their pistolas while shouting “olé”. Almost automatically Ennio Morricone’s legendary tune from ‘Once Upon A Time In The West’ echoed through my head, like a soundtrack for the entire road trip.
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Even though that video is not in Mexico, you get the idea...
On the background I heard the conversation with Alfredo, the trucker, providing a shocking counterpart of this beauty: His town as well as this area is tortured by (drugs) cartel violence at a continuously intensifying level, not limited to rival dealers and gang members. Villagers, women, children… anyone that comes across the wrong area or is somehow related to anyone who can disturb their plans of narcotraficking or extortion is at a possible risk: In short, everyone. He had a video on his phone of a woman that first had her breasts sliced off, her fingernails removed and then got slowly chopped up until she bled to death, as gangs urge others to watch this as a warning. And the police? Again, they do nothing. In the media they of course pretend they do, but in reality most leading actors in Mexican’s drugworld are wearing a government uniform. If you want to get a proper idea about this reality, I recommend to watch this documentary: Cartel Land (available on Netflix).
On the background I heard the conversation with Alfredo, the trucker, providing a shocking counterpart of this beauty: His town as well as this area is tortured by (drugs) cartel violence at a continuously intensifying level, not limited to rival dealers and gang members. Villagers, women, children… anyone that comes across the wrong area or is somehow related to anyone who can disturb their plans of narcotraficking or extortion is at a possible risk: In short, everyone. He had a video on his phone of a woman that first had her breasts sliced off, her fingernails removed and then got slowly chopped up until she bled to death, as gangs urge others to watch this as a warning. And the police? Again, they do nothing. In the media they of course pretend they do, but in reality most leading actors in Mexican’s drugworld are wearing a government uniform. If you want to get a proper idea about this reality, I recommend to watch this documentary: Cartel Land (available on Netflix).
Finally, FINALLY I arrived in Oaxaca.
The general thought: “It better be good”. And OMG, it was. The moment Couchsurfer Marco picked me up and drove me down to his spacious home where I got presented my private bed- and bathroom, I knew life has a way of treating you after rougher times. Cactus was served for dinner, because Mexico happens.
The general thought: “It better be good”. And OMG, it was. The moment Couchsurfer Marco picked me up and drove me down to his spacious home where I got presented my private bed- and bathroom, I knew life has a way of treating you after rougher times. Cactus was served for dinner, because Mexico happens.
Enjoy your deep-fried insects. For f#cks sake I’m vegan.
After something that resembled more a state of coma than a moment of intermission, I got ready for some city exploration. I’m usually complaining about the lack of culture and art, here the endless amount of art galleries and institutions even allows you to be critical. I went for a little marathon: Galeria Quetzalli, Galeria 910, Max Sanz Galeria, Duubiedie, Galeria Quatrosiete… one by one exquisite displays of contemporary art of surprisingly high quality. Marco advised me to visit the Iglesia Santo Domingo as well, a church both stunning on the inside and outside.
Our humble Catholics for sure didn’t economize on the gold, the entire roof was smeared full with gold leaf, almost approaching Italian abundance. I also made it to the Cathedral, but after Santo Domingo it’s hard to be impressed.
Following local advice, I checked in at Museo De Las Culturas De Oaxaca (or Museo Santo Domingo) for a sequel. Luckily, it wasn’t all religious show-off I found in this gigantic exposition. It was… well, basically everything else. From statues to history displays, and from paintings to simulations of traditional industries and eating methods: Anything that ever happened in Oaxaca can be traced back here. Culture, check. I rushed outside to catch up with Marco again, the latter taking me out for a fancy dinner as apparently just offering free accommodation is not enough. Leave the hospitality to the Mexicans.
Following local advice, I checked in at Museo De Las Culturas De Oaxaca (or Museo Santo Domingo) for a sequel. Luckily, it wasn’t all religious show-off I found in this gigantic exposition. It was… well, basically everything else. From statues to history displays, and from paintings to simulations of traditional industries and eating methods: Anything that ever happened in Oaxaca can be traced back here. Culture, check. I rushed outside to catch up with Marco again, the latter taking me out for a fancy dinner as apparently just offering free accommodation is not enough. Leave the hospitality to the Mexicans.
The day later Marco woke me up… to go to the gym. During travelling I don't really have any sporty routine besides some hiking, volcano climbing and roaming around city centers, so I couldn’t really come up with a valid excuse. So cross-fit it was. This kind of sealed the deal for the next days: I became 50 years older in 1,5 hours.
So while doing ‘the robot’ I continued my art quest. MACA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, was high on my list. Art was combined with a documentary about the experiences of a busted drug smuggler, very Mexican. Openly this old little narcotrafficker told about his interrogations by the police, accompanied with intense tortures. In line with these system defaults I ended up in a room with video installations, displaying graffiti being painted over. State censorship, got it. Expositions change every three weeks, so if I would live here I can say with conviction this would be my fixed hang-out.
So while doing ‘the robot’ I continued my art quest. MACA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, was high on my list. Art was combined with a documentary about the experiences of a busted drug smuggler, very Mexican. Openly this old little narcotrafficker told about his interrogations by the police, accompanied with intense tortures. In line with these system defaults I ended up in a room with video installations, displaying graffiti being painted over. State censorship, got it. Expositions change every three weeks, so if I would live here I can say with conviction this would be my fixed hang-out.
Next: Museo De Los Pintores Oaxaqueños. The exhibition greeted me with the quote “It is exactly what you think it is.” Starting with: an embroidered artwork with names of artists written in rabbits (because why not), one of them being my compatriot “Mondrian”. *Negative-buzzer-sound!* The observant reader obviously already noticed it’s Mondriaan: aa-aa-aa-aa! An unforgivable mistake that moreover made the entire artwork irrelevant, as far as painter-names in bunnies are relevant. I took the liberty to hang a correction letter in front of the canvas and left.
Centro Fotográfico Alvarez Brava then? It was free, so I guess that's a yes. The photography was indeed sublime, but what really got me where the poems and philosophical daydreams accompanying the works.
Centro Fotográfico Alvarez Brava then? It was free, so I guess that's a yes. The photography was indeed sublime, but what really got me where the poems and philosophical daydreams accompanying the works.
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Another success story: Museo De La Filatelia De Oaxaca, an entire museum about… stamps. And that’s more interesting than you think. I might be a bit prejudiced, because what no one knows is that in some far history I was a fanatic stamp collector. [I spent long Sunday afternoons soaking old envelopes and postcards of my grandmother and her acquaintances, some of them sent during or shortly after World War II. I hold warm memories of those times as my grandmother’s house was the place where I felt most safe and loved during my childhood…] this museum turned back time a tiny bit. Besides that, stamps genuinely reflect a country’s history, cultures and topicalities. It’s a reflection of the national psyche. I stayed until closing time… I did my best on the museum front.
During a cup of caffeine I read about some place called Hierve el Agua and Google Images looked promising… “Get ready”, my host Marco ordered. First he drove me down to a stunning piece of land he owned among the overwhelmingly beautiful Oaxacan mountains, then he took me to his mother’s birthplace Mitla for a fresh fried market lunch.
Even if Hierve el Agua would be nothing special, the trip to get there was rewarding enough (I mean WOW), but luckily every investment in time and money was paid off instantly. Turkish Pamukale meets Bolivia’s highlands: In-cre-di-ble, what a gem.
We for sure weren’t the only tourists and the water was so cold I could instantly cut glass with my nipples, but hey: Smile for the camera and make some of those memories you’re going to crave for for decades to come.
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