Wednesday 10 June, 2009
8.15am: This is a godforsaken time to be waking up on a Sunday morning. Also, something of a novelty. Eight of us have agreed to leave the hostel at 9am to visit a big market in a village in the valley an hour from Oaxaca, Mexico. I am the only one awake. This does not bode well.
8.30am: Still the only one up.
8.40am: A couple of the others come staggering in for breakfast. Abandon all hope of 9am departure.
9.15am: Sit on couch reading old National Geographics and trying not to get bossy and demand that everyone hurry the fuck up. Someone's friend has just arrived and has decided to skype Australia right now. Feel blood beginning to boil.
9.35am: FINALLY leave hostel. Somehow, because the markets were my idea, have been made in charge of 8 people and have to shepherd them all the way across the city like a flock of sheep. Woof woof! Alone I could make it in fifteen minutes. This is going to take an hour. Why, god? Too used to solo travel. This group thing is nuts. Wait an interminably long time for seven people to get money out. End up blocks ahead due to their painfully slow walking. Ears begin to steam.
10.30am: Finally arrive at bus station. Tlacolula village is an hour from here, the Lonely Planet says. Get a bus from the second class bus terminal. The second class bus terminal is a packed dirt pen. A chicken scratches in the far corner and there are piles of car tires stacked haphazardly along the walls. Alarmingly, there is not a single bus in sight. "Buses leave every few minutes", the Lonely Planet says.
10.35am: Ask a woman playing a leisurely hand of cards at a plastic table what the deal is, while the others huddle like a herd of gringo gazelles at the gate. "There's no bus," the woman says. "Get a colectivo from over there." She waves expansively into the distance, "it's fifteen pesos per person." Am going to write an epic poem one day. Working title: Lonely Planet, Why Have You Forsaken Me (Again)?
10.37am: Report back to the others. "No way!" They bellow. "Impossible! Can't be that cheap!" Skinny bespectacled Matt from Sydney, who is inexplicably wearing a bandana and looks like a Survivor Day One competitor, decides to take control and show silly me how REAL Spanish is spoken.
10.40am: We all watch as Matt flails his arms at the lady. She makes the same expansive sweeping gesture and looks utterly bored. He returns: "You were right," he says dubiously. Decide I don't like him.
10.45am: Herd all seven skeptical ducklings across the highway. We need two taxis with "Tlacolula" written on the front. Of course there are none. A burly Mexican takes pity and directs us to further along the highway. Traffic roars past as we skirt the road, belching delicious Sunday morning fumes. This being in charge business sucks.
10.48am: Arrive at a sidestreet filled with colectivos. Not one says "Tlacolula". In yet another act of pity towards foreigners, an off-duty cabbie leads us all down the street. His friends burst out laughing at him. "What are you now, a tour guide?" They jeer. Am extremely grateful.
10.50am: Four of us jump into the first cab. It is indeed going to cost us a mere 15 pesos, or $1.30 each for a one-hour trip. Because this is a Mexican taxi, and it is much smaller than cabs back home. we are all jammed in with zero legroom. An immensely fat mammajamma in a blindingly pink muumuu and lots of gold bling raps on the window, looking expectant. The driver says, "here in Mexico we take five passengers." Subtext: Move the fuck over and let's get this show on the road. We look at one another in panic. Señor, please, there's no room back here, we plead. We agree to pay for five people even though we're four and we screech off, leaving the lady behind.
10.55am: "How far is it to Tlacolula?" Veronique pipes up from the back. "No problem, half an hour," responds the driver. We look at each other. How will he manage that?
11.00am: It becomes very clear how the minute we leave the city limits. "The speed limit is 60 and we're doing 120," Flavio whispers to me. The driver swerves into a lane of oncoming traffic to engage in a little competitive overtaking and swerves back in just in time to avoid a high-speed collision. We grip the seat. Mexican taxis rarely bother with formalities such as seatbelts for backseat passengers.
11.15am: We arrive in Tlacolula in impressively good time. It is underwhelming. Instead of the picturesque village I had imagined it is dominated by a highway and a giant Pemex gas station. Minutes later the fat lady squeezes out of another cab - she made it! Reunited, the eight of us set off for the markets and are promptly separated.
11.30am: Flava Flav and I wander around perusing leather belts, saddles, apple corers, hammocks, and large metal laundry tubs. This is not quite the artisans' market we were expecting. Rather, it is several streets and two squares lined with tarp-covered stalls, selling everything and anything. It is not a tourists' market and therein lies its charm. Everything looks blue due to the plastic overhead and it is hot, meat steam from the adjacent food stalls slapping us in the face and clouding our view.
The market is filled with women in Zapotec dress - long embroidered skirts and glittery colourful tops, with ribbons woven into their hair - carrying live turkeys under their arms, their feet tied together, or armloads of trussed up chickens squawking and hanging upside down. A little girl hops along behind us staring up at me and saying in awe, "... she's so tall..." I grin at her and she beams back at me. Definitely very few tourists here.
12.15pm: We run into Bandana Matt and Swedish Louise. Apropos of nothing, Matt tells me that I look like a vegetarian. I am insulted. He tries to pretend that it was a compliment. Really don't like him. Flav and I stalk off towards a woman selling enormous mounds of grasshoppers and we buy a bag to prove my non-vegetarian status. "Full of vitamins and protein!" She says. We'll see.
1.15pm: Flav and I are sitting on the side of the road chatting when a tiny old lady leading a live kid goat comes walking past. She is promptly followed by a wizened old man leading another. Off to the butcher's, most likely. If I lived in Latin America for real, I think would only be able to eat meat in restaurants - the butchers' section of food markets has unrefrigerated slabs of meat suspended on hooks and it is a playground for flies. Plucked chickens are painted yellow with some indistinguishable substance, perhaps to prevent salmonella, but I'm not buying it. Oh, and it smells hideous. Perhaps Bandana Matt was not too far off the mark after all.
LATER: It is raining - hello, rainy season - and we are sitting around drinking beers. The grasshoppers are brought out. Everyone takes one and we agree on three to eat them and get it over with. I bite down on what I presume is a fried grasshopper, which should be crunchy, and it spurts something liquidy into my mouth. My reaction is natural: I scream, spit it out onto the couch and gag, and have to be placated with guacamole and chips. Protein and vitamin-rich they might be but I don't think I'll ever be eating one of those suckers again.
PS. Angelo, IOU one half-chewed grasshopper clean-up, thanks buddy.
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