Mexico City and Teotihuacan, Mexico (Day 12 - 9/1/14)

The Pyramid of the Moon, Teotihuacan

Today is our first day trip in Mexico, and boy am I excited. We are going to see our first pyramids with a pre-booked guide. Duck is still a little apprehensive about Mexico in general but our hotel here in the city has been first class. Well, except for the part of the doorframe that ripped off when I opened door while the security chain was locked. Whoops!

Alejandro drops us off in the Zocalo so we can sightsee a little more before it's time for our trip. The car slows significantly as we approach the square. Protestors have lined the streets, way more intensely than the previous day, holding placards with a politician's face on it. We are naturally curious, and ask Alejandro about it but he is reluctant to answer in specifics. He points out to us that all the protestors are poor, as if this somehow negates their protesting. It's hard to tell just exactly what point he is making though as English is his second language - nonetheless, I find his answering a bit intentionally ambiguous, and I am unable to tell if he is being cynical or sympathetic. 

Protestors lined many streets

Note the police presence: they were everywhere

When we finally get into the Zocalo the place is throbbing with human activity. Hundreds upon hundreds of protestors (possibly thousands) stand around the perimeter in an orderly fashion while someone shouts slogans at them through a megaphone. The police are present as well, both in a regular capacity and also in riot gear, poised to suppress the protestors if things should get ugly. No one seems worried though, touristas and Mexicanos alike pay the protestors and police no mind as they bustle about the square. Kids are still ice skating, and the churches are still open. Tellingly, the Presidential Palace has wisely chosen to close its doors for the day.

Colonial Architecture in Mexico City

More magnificent architecture

 We decide to have a close look at the Basilica, the huge and magnificent cathedral adjacent to the palace.

Outside this cathedral there are glass windows set into the ground. We peer down into them and see the ancient catacombs still preserved underneath. These are the remains of the Aztec temples that once stood here. When Cortez conquered Mexico he (vindictively... piously... it's up for debate really) built the Zocalo and its accompanying church directly over the top of the Aztec capital's centre. The Basilica is literally built on Aztec skulls. You can see them through the glass, half-buried in the walls of the catacombs. It's horrific but also slightly exciting, like I've wandered into an Indiana Jones movie.

Note the skull set into the wall.

Inside the Basilica is something else. I'm finding it hard to describe each of the landmarks we see without descending into hyperbole, but let me just say that this is the biggest church I've ever been in. About two to three times larger than the already quite grand one we went into yesterday. The ceilings reach up to the Heavens and curve over to encompass them. Camera-clutching tourists rub shoulders with quiet bow-backed Catholics, admiring the intricate marble architecture and Californian Redwood-like stone columns while locals weep solemnly for their sins and loved ones. Alcoves line the walls, each one depicting a different collection of saints. Some have been opened up for people to pray in. As I gaze up at the towering pillars of stone that hold up the roof - each one thicker than the length of a small car - I wonder; why do we not build stuff like this anymore? Are such architectural feats always dependent on religion or the suffering of a large lower class? Sure, we have our Opera House in Australia, but it's quite minimalist in comparison to Mexico City's egotistical yet impressive opulence - and this is a country where half the population live below the poverty line.

Outside the Basilica

 

Inside the Basilica

 

With half an hour to spare, we decide to grab some more street food for lunch. We spy a busy joint selling tacos for the equivalent of 60 Australian cents each, and we make a beeline for it. After laughing and staring our way through more broken espanol we get shuffled through a lunch line while a mohawked Mexican punk reaches into a large bucket full of soggy, interlocking tacos and plops them onto a plate for us, the halo of oil radiating around them in a vivid shade of orange.

$1.80 worth of tacos

I wait until we're almost finished eating them, and remark to the Duck, "Well, if these tacos don't make us sick, then nothing well!" Duck laughs and we wipe our hands on our jeans in lieu of napkins. 

Another stray observation about Mexico City... everyone sells cigarettes, even the old beggar woman on the church steps. Her cigarette packets sit propped open in front of her invitingly, the ciggies within available for individual purchase. Amazing.

We meet Itzal, our tour guide for the Teotihuacan pyramids (pronounced Teo-ti-wah-cun), and with her are two other tourists from Australia - a pair of girls from Melbourne who work together in accounting. Itzal tells us that most of the tourists who book tours with Bamba across Mexico are either Australian or from mainland Europe. Make of that what you will.

Mexico City Metro

Itzal takes us on the Mexico City Metro, a fairly new subway that connects up roughly half of the city. The crowds are insane, and the doors of the train close against the Duck barely milliseconds after we get on. We swap trains three times until we get to the bus station that will get us to Teotihuacan, which is about 40-50 kilometres outside of the city. The security at the bus station is comparable to the Mexico City Airport, if not even more extreme. We have to show identification and I undergo two separate body pat-downs before they let me onto the bus. There is a large sign outside the queue with the photographs of about forty criminals who are to be watched out for, and we then all pass through a scanner while our bags get checked. I guess this is to prevent bus hijackings and Itzal later confirms that they had a problem with the buses "several months ago" (as if this were the distant past!). One of the accountants exclaims, "Only a few months ago!" and Itzal changes her answer to "a year ago". Later, the bus gets checked mid-route by a security officer who greets each one of us with a "hola" while filming us with a video camera, flashes a torch in my eyes, and looks under all of the seats.

The favelas (slums) stretch on for miles outside the metropolitan part of Mexico City

Another funny thing about the bus; it stops to let hawkers on.

A salesman or saleswoman will come on with a big tray full of snacks, a line of coke bottles strapped to their bodies like a bandolero. The bus driver waits for them patiently to walk up and down the bus aisle before leaving, and Itzal explains that they are allowed to sell whatever they want to us but for for no more than $1 American dollar. Good deal.

Teotihuacan is a true wonder but is not heritage-listed yet as it was only discovered around 1910 (these huge pyramids - some of the biggest in Mexico - were previously covered in dirt so they looked like hills and mountains). The ancient city has been partially reconstructed in parts to demonstrate the full scope of the complex built by a Mesoamerican civilisation known only as the Teotihuacanos. Not much is known about this group as they had no written language. Their civilisation flourished between 300 BC and 200 AD, and their buildings were regarded by later civilisations (such as the Mixtecs and the Aztecs) as tombs of the gods. The grand complex has an efficient drainage system, and some of the walls still retain their original red paint and murals depicting jaguars, parrots and pumas.

Itzal points out the surviving artwork, nearly 2000 years old

Teotihuacano jaguar

After walking through the complex we move past the various smaller structures and come to the Pyramid of the Moon. The steps only take tourists halfway up the structure but that's more than high enough for me. The stairs are narrow and steep, and I resolutely look only two steps ahead as I climb the ascent. Once at the landing I scramble as far from the edge as I can get and turn back to take in the view of the city. It's larger than I thought, and Itzal tells us that the ancient city was home to some 250, 000 Teotihuacans around 2000 years ago. I try to picture the city alive but the structures are too big for my imagination at this point, and I feel breathless from the climb (and my fear of heights doesn't help either). I watch as an American girl poses right on the ledge for a photo, my heart skipping beats as I picture her slipping and tumbling to a stupid, sudden and unavoidable death.

It's at this point that I quickly make my descent, grasping the black rubber rope for comfort as I try not to look down. 

At the bottom Itzal explains the nature of Mesoamerican society to us. A person's role in this society was determined by the day they were born on. One of these days was a day of sacrifice, so if you were born on this day it was your lot in life to eventually be sacrificed to the gods. I guess there has to be some kind of payoff... the Teotihuacans couldn't accept the beauty of their pyramids without undergoing some kind of suffering in return, so the streets were awash with blood, and it makes a twisted kind of sense if you're standing at the foot of these giant buildings.

View of the ancient city

I struggle to imagine how someone could so willingly lay down their life for an abstract concept like religion, and Itzal tries to explain that it was just a way of life for this society. The 'victim' would have their back cracked over a large rock (a rock that we stand next to as she explains this), and the severing of the spinal column would act as a brutal but effective anesthetic for what was to come. It was required for the sacrificial victim to be conscious until their death so that they could watch their torso being opened up. With the breaking of their back, they could painlessly watch their heart being removed and held in front of their face before they expired.

What a way to go.

And if that wasn't shocking enough, then the heart would be eaten by a high priest in a tamale (a kind of corn-husk burrito). Oh, and did I mention that each corner of the larger pyramids has the remains of babies buried inside them? Cheerful bunch, these Teotihuacanos. 

We look to the Pyramid of the Sun, the city's larger pyramid and one of the tallest such structures in all of Mexico. I don't know if I can climb this one. It's three times higher than the Pyramid of the Moon, and I was packing it. As we get closer to it I remain non-commital. Maybe I'll climb it, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll take it one step at a time and see how I go. Maybe I'll just wait at the bottom.

Maybe I just have to do it because this will be the only time I'm ever here and it's a crazy-huge two thousand year old pyramid and if I don't do it I'll hate myself for the rest of my life.

I try not to think about it.

One flight of stairs at a time.

This isn't too bad. These steps aren't as steep.

I'll just take a little peek behind me.

Bad idea.

I lean in towards the stairs and grasp the rubber rope. A six year old boy just within my field of peripheral vision jumps around ahead of me. Where are his goddamn parents? If he falls and comes somersaulting down towards me I will shift out of his way.

I try to pull myself up another flight of stairs. This time I'll look up rather than down.

It's so high.

265 steps later (yes, this is how many there are in total, and no, I didn't count them) I reach the highest landing. From here you can scuttle over rubble up to the apex, which I force myself to do. I stay crouched down, irrationally but irrevocably afraid that if I stand the wind and gravity will take me off the edge all those 65 metres to the ground.

The smaller structures in ancient Teotihuacan

The pyramid used to be higher but the top was dynamited during its uncovering. That's what all this rubble is. I sit with the others for a while on the upper most landing and I manage to find some tranquility despite my ever-present fear. People say you can conquer your fears by doing things like this but my phobia remains undiminished alongside my triumph. Coming back down is scary, but at least I get to be on the ground at the end.

Once I'm on the ground again a sudden crowd of locals swarm to us like moths, carrying T-shirts, obsidian jewellery, polished death masks and noisemakers that sound like the harsh growl of a jaguar. I'm pretty okay with just ignoring them, and sometimes say "No" in espanol (which sounds like "No" in English, only you say it with a Mexican accent). The Duck tires of it quickly though, her innate politeness preventing her from simply moving past them silently.

The tour doesn't end after Teotihuacan, Itzal has a few other things to show us. She's very small but also boisterous and mischievous, always ready to slip a well-rehearsed joke into her explanations but also able to chat less formally with us. She finds a taxi who is willing to take five passengers in his four seats (as it's Mexico, this is very easy to organise - all she had to do was ask the first taxi driver that she saw). One of the accountants sits on Itzal's lap in the front seat. There are no seat belts in the back. The taxi wheels around in a slow circle, mounting the makeshift dirt gutters before taking us down some gravel backstreets to the nearby town.

Obsidian artisan outside of Teotihuacan

The fences in the town (also named Teotihuacan) are often broken into pieces, and there is no evidence of any kind of town planning - people build their houses right up against each other, or wherever else they like. Dogs are everything, lounging in the streets and even on the roofs of houses. A mangy poodle watches us from a tin awning as we pass. Also, as it's just after Christmas, endless strings of colourful paper flowers hang over the streets like bunting. It's quite a sight - a ramshackle community with its heart on its sleeve.

We pull up at the outskirts of the town where a local (who speaks very good English) demonstrates the many tribal uses of the agave cactus and the way that obsidian is crafted into many kinds of decorative objects. Most importantly, we try three varieties of cacti-based alcohol - pulqua (a traditional Aztec drink, quite tasty and not too potent), tequila (which I've always had issues with, and this local variety is no different) and mescal (yeah, the one with the worm - this one is a bit foul too).

Pulqua, Tequila, Mescal

Cactus-thread

Itzal then takes us through the streets of the town, leading us down colourfully painted alleyways, past homes-converted-into-shops and to another cactus-product outlet where we sample chips, liqueurs and lollies made from agave and prickly pears. While walking through the streets I see another roof dog; a large and very loud Rottweiler that bounces from the flimsy single line of wire designed to hold him back. He barks quite viciously, scaring the stuffing out of some local women as they pass by. I decide to take a photo of this awesome dog, and he turns towards me, absolutely losing his temper and getting tangled up over the wire as he tries to get from the roof down to the street. For a moment I worry that he might jump over it and come tumbling down on top of me, very angry and ready to tear my throat out. It was great.

Roof Poodle

Roof Rottweiler

Itzal describes the meaning of Teotihuacan street art

The zocalo in the modern township of Teotihuacan

Teotihuacan street

 

As the sun goes down, Itzal takes us to a local Mexican family's house where we have a traditional home-cooked meal. Having witnessed the poverty throughout the town, and comparing it to this huge house (which was far bigger than our place back in Australia), I decide that this family is not very reflective of what's average in this part of Mexico. But, that's not to say it isn't a welcome visit, it's a very nice meal and the family are quite interested in what Australia is like, so the time passes pleasantly.

Home-cooked Mexican

It's past 9 pm when we get back to the subway in Mexico City, so it's a lot quieter than it was at midday, but no less crazy. Private security soldiers walk past us with their handguns drawn, as if ready to fire on someone like it isn't a big deal. The Duck and the accountants see a guy carrying a giant rifle rather nonchalantly as well but my attention is elsewhere. As far as deterrents go, it seems a fairly effective strategy. The Metro subway feels pretty safe. No one could really say that Mexico isn't trying to do something to clean up its reputation as a hotbed of crime, and when one of these mercenaries smiles at me and says, "Hola", I feel quite safe indeed. But even so, I still can't deny the ambivalence I feel about the whole thing after the fact. As a tourist I might feel quite safe in the presence of such men, but what does the ongoing work of these security forces do to the psyche of the local population?

Mexico City, Mexico (Day 11 - 7/1/14 and 8/1/14)

Welcome to Mexico City

It doesn't help that we came into Mexico City so late, but there's a definite feeling of anxiety buzzing between us as we get off the plane and into an airport where all the signs, all the people, all the language is Espanol. At a few points we trip in our confusion, unable to understand what's required of us from the staff upon entering their country. About one in two airport staff speak broken English, and I begin to make use of the Duck's little phrasebook.

Hola! Por favor! Bano?

Security checks are a lot less full-on than in Australia or America, although I do pass through a full body scanner at one point. The security guy tells me to raise my arms in the air but I can only manage one due to my broken collarbone. Duck begins to panic, worried that they'll roughly force my arms up if they don't understand me as I valiantly try to explain through hand gestures that my shoulder is unable to move in the way that they want it to...

The guy just kind of shrugs and waves me through after asking me to raise my bung arm up as high as I can (which aint very high at all).

We float around the airport for a bit before finding our hotel, the Courtyard Marriott. It turns out to be quite a swanky affair - far classier than the Duck and I. As has become the norm for this trip, our room gets upgraded when we mention that we're on our honeymoon, and the steward also gives us two vouchers for alcoholic drinks so we can celebrate tomorrow. The room turns out to be amazing, the best we've stayed in yet; nonetheless we both feel a little apprehensive still. We're yet to step into the real Mexico. This hotel is clearly a heavily Westernised welcoming bridge for rich white folk. And yet, here we are, a thousand or more kilometres south of America in an entirely different country where they don't speak the same language as everyone else.

At breakfast, the hotel staff present us with a slice of cake to help our 'celebration'. It's very unexpected and quite touching, however their enthusiasm dims somewhat when Duck and myself decide to cash in our drink vouchers at the ripe time of 11 AM. Have we committed a faux pas? Is alcohol just not consumed before midday on a Wednesday? If it's any consolation, the Duck regrets her margarita almost immediately. I try some, it's a very strong and salty way to start the day, and I don't begrudge the fact that we leave it unfinished.

Mexican candy

I'd done a lot of research about safety in Mexico prior (and during) this trip and the consensus seems to be that it isn't advisable to just hail a taxi off the street. The hotel seems reputable, so we let them take us to a trusted taxi with a driver who speaks English. His name is Alejandro and he's quite chatty, offering to chauffeur us around all day for US $20 an hour. It's cheaper than it was to hire a car for day in America, so we decide to take him up on this just to avoid the stress of trying to figure out transport. He lets us take our bags into our hotel room without us paying him a cent yet, so I feel that he's fairly trustworthy. Plus he has a great set of pearly false teeth that he grins at us with constantly, which only endears him to us further. 

Much like America, everyone we talk to is incredibly polite and friendly. They're just regular people... 33 million regular people in one city. It seems silly to assume that they're all criminals now that we're here among them, and I feel a little ashamed that I let certain fears gnaw at me after hearing various Americans tell us not to risk a trip to Mexico. I guess this is the nature of our fear of the unknown.

As we drive around the city the sheer size of it begins to dawn on me, the abstract transferring into a reality of noise, smells, traffic, smells, people, smells, and highly engaging architecture.

And smells.

The buildings range from the derelict and shambolic to the modern and sleek, but the ones that really put America and Australia to shame are the older ones - Spanish buildings between 300 and 500 years old, painted a light blue or pale orange, or a crinkled rainbow of grey shades clinging to intricate archways and buttresses. A huge flag of Mexico, the biggest flag I've ever seen, flaps in the low breeze at the end of one street.

One of the more middle class areas of the city

Alejandro, no doubt eager to secure our patronage for the day and any days after, reveals a vast store of historical and local knowledge as he drives us around. For instance, he talks to us about Mexico City, the fact that it was built here to subsume the previous Aztec city (Tenochtitlan) in a bid to help convert the natives to Christianity. Also, there are very few skyscrapers due to the fact that the city sits on a former lake and the spongy ground therefore cannot support heavy foundations.

Mexico City skyline

And even though I could open the taxi door myself (and often did just that), Alejandro insisted on getting out and trying to open it for me first. That's service.

The Duck laughs ruefully after a few minutes of riding in the taxi as a passenger, "I'm glad we never considered driving around Mexico ourselves..." There are a few key differences with driving in Mexico. There are no lanes, no indicators, and no rules. Everyone just drives where they like, only it's much slower than our traffic so if anyone hits anyone else it'll just be a gentle bump (no doubt accompanied by some yelling and shaking of fists). At some intersections there are police officers with whistles directing traffic. The traffic lights still work in these areas, the cops are just there to 'help' drivers obey them.

Here are the things we saw on our journey around the city:

Mexico City :)

The Frida Kahlo Museum

This was one of our main reasons for coming to Mexico City. The Duck is a huge Frida fan, and we got discounted entry because I'm a teacher - which was a little bit marvellous because it shows the integrity of the museum towards artists and educators. To call it a 'museum' is a bit of misnomer though, I'd say it's more a shrine. Even for a weekday it's very busy, with intellectuals and hipsters and elderly art fans all jostling to get close to Kahlo's bed, art materials, etc. As we walk through her house we get a pretty good sense of who she was, and the suffering and triumphs of her life.

Duck got confused in the toilets though as she was told to put her toilet paper into a bin rather than the toilet. Welcome to Mexican toilets.

Outside the Frida Kahlo Museum, formerly her house

Courtyard in Frida Kahlo Museum

Frida Kahlo's studio

Frida Kahlo Museum

Artwork #1

Artwork #2

Artwork #3

Artwork #4 + a Duck

Kahlo's leg brace

The Leon Trotsky Museum

This is just around the corner from Frida Kahlo's house. The two were actually friends in Mexico City's bohemian distract, Coyoacan, and Trotsky's house has been remarkably preserved since his assassination back in 1940. It's much quieter than Kahlo's place, and we walk through the famous revolutionary's gardens, study, bedroom... his wire chicken coop still stands too. I take photos of every room.

Trotsky's courtyard

Trotsky's house

Trotsky's dining room

Just in case we didn't realise who's garden we were in

Trotsky's personal library

Trotsky's backyard

The Temple of San Juan Bautiste

I'm not even sure if this is the right name for it but Alejandro takes us to a park in Coyoacan that leads to a plaza outside a huge Catholic Church. Duck spots squirrels in the park, and this takes up a good 15 minutes of our attention. The church is a huge, intimidating structure of advanced age, incredibly ornate and well looked-after. The insides are gold and stained glass and a hundred serious looking saints that stare accusatorily down from an impossibly high ceiling. Alejandro tells us it's okay to take photos but I feel very cautious about offending someone in this huge, silent place of prayer... so I only manage three pictures.

Oh, hello there!

Inside the church

Markets

Alejandro takes us to what he calls a 'middle class' part of the city where there are some artsy markets. It turns out, however, that these markets are closed so he tells us to go off and have a look around anyway. We see another park and decide to walk through it in the hope of finding some street food on the other side but the park seems scary - scores of people sit around quietly in large groups, just staring at us while they do nothing in particular. We soldier on, neither of us admitting our nervousness until a good half an hour later! We eventually find some markets but these are very much like flea markets, with fruit and dodgy knock-off shirts lining the street.

Market shot

Everywhere you look in Mexico City there are lots of people trying to make a buck. Little food stalls spring up out of every corner, entire streets are devoted to selling just one kind of thing (such as bicycles) out of what could be best described as nondescript 'shop holes', and guys walk between seemingly aimless lines of traffic with toys strapped to their chest.

There were endless streets with wares on them like this

The Duck and I find a place advertising antojitos (street snacks - literally translating to 'little cravings') and we manage to order some quesadillas through the use of very basic Spanish. I can say about ten things, but it doesn't get me very far. Mostly I just point at things or gesticulate with an almost futile enthusiasm. Not knowing the language has given me a whole new perspective on non-English speaking visitors to Australia. Only now do I fully understand the gormless smile and glazed eyes, because that's how I react when Mexicans speak to me in Espanol. And all I'll add to that is: Mexicans are much more patient with me than most Australians (sadly) would be with them.  

Antijotos in production

The Zocalo

Alejandro convinces us that we would be crazy to not at least look at the Zocalo, Mexico City's spiritual centre and town square. Nearly all major Mexican cities or towns have a zocalo of their own. In this case, the traffic in this area is absolutely chocked, but it's worth the time and money. The central square is boxed by a huge cathedral some 450 years old, the largest in all of Mexico and perhaps the entire Americas, and on another side is the palace in which the Mexican President resides. These are truly fearsome buildings, and the streets behind them hold lesser known but no less impressive aged feats of Old World architecture in to the New World. In the centre of the Zocalo is an outside ice rink, set up by the government for 'the kids', and there's also the biggest Christmas tree I've ever seen - bright and towering; a yuletide titan.

The Presidential Palace

The Zocalo

Alejandro drops us at an upmarket Mexican restaurant called El Cardenal - where the true value of the Australian dollar turns us into royalty. For the equivalent of $50 Australian, the two of us drink and eat a bountiful and beautiful dinner. The Duck has mole beef wrapped in cactus leaves, and I have a huge green chili stuffed with pork and a whole lot of exotic Latin American ingredients - also smothered in the burnt chili-chocolate goodness of mole sauce.

Chili stuffed with pork, covered in mole, with frijoles (bean paste - found on nearly every Mexican plate)

By this point we're well and truly stuffed and decide to call it a day. Alejandro seems disappointed that we don't want to explore well into the night but is happy to take us back to our hotel all the same. On our way we see fourteen-odd police cars with their lights all flashing, lined up near the Zocalo. A bus full of police in riot gear pulls up, ready to quell a protest.

Nice eats

"What are they protesting?" the Duck asks, noticing the many people holding signs along the kerbside.

"Everything," says Alejandro cynically, "Rain, no rain..." He laughs, but it's hard not to look past his casual disregard. Throughout today we've seen police on every corner, and near every church and museum. Stern sentinels ensuring the protection of Mexico City's increasingly improved reputation.

No one seems to pay any heed to the protestors. Indeed, everyone around this sudden concentration of police cars and riot squad soldiers is determined to be very blase and barely aware of what's happening - implying that this is business as usual in Mexico City, and perhaps you're best off just pretending it isn't happening. 

It highlights a disturbing contrast between the culture we've experienced as tourists and the reality for those who live here; something that can't be understood in just one day.

Goodnight, Mexico City!