Marking Time In Léon and Morelia
Trip Start
Sep 13, 2006
1
23
31
Trip End
Mar 27, 2007
Morelia,
Mexico
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Dodging the buses next morning I found my way out of town along a cobbled-stoned road through a dry cactus-pocked valley, subtly different to those I'd encountered further to the north. An avenue of gnarled stunted trees provided a modicum of much-needed shade. I rolled into the village of Duarte just as the convent girls were making their way home for lunch, lustrous black ponytails extending down across their backs. Outside the store a young boy hovered mischievously, an egg cradled in his hand. We eyed each other across the street while I thought about pumping some air into my tyres. Eventually the boy's curiosity got the better of him and, eggs secreted somewhere about his person, he came over to check out the mysterious foreigner. I did my best to explain where I came from and what I was doing cycling around Mexico. My confession to having been just as naughty when I'd been a little girl was met with great mirth. I left the boy laughing and headed out the other side of the village, where I promptly lost the road.
A bumpy dirt track led through fields of spiky-blue agave for a couple of kilometres. Atop a distant hill, reputedly the exact geographical centre of Mexico, stood a giant statue of Christ. Tequila and Jesus, I mused, arriving at a junction - muy mexicano or what? I was meant to be heading east but the road ran north to south. JC and myself excepted, there wasn't a sinner about. Relieved to be back on tarmac, I guessed south. Soon the highway was dipping towards a broad open valley, the runway of an airport came into view and I knew that I'd picked the wrong option. Having travelled in a near complete circle, I hit the Autopista National just a few kilometres from where I'd started a couple of hours previously on the edge of Leon. Huge lorries thundered by on one of Mexico's busiest highways. I joined the hard shoulder and followed the carriageway eastward. A few kilometres further the shoulder ended and the juggernauts rumbled slowly onto a long high bridge over some kind of major intersection - it wasn't a prospect for the faint of heart. I took a long hard look and concluded that I'd already seen enough fabled silver cities for one trip - Guanajuato could wait. A few minutes later, with my bicycle secured safely behind me, I was in a taxi heading back towards Leon.
When I arrived in Morelia a few hours later I was full of anticipation. It felt exciting to be in such an elegant city just as the weekend kicked off. Colonial-era facades and monuments shimmered under floodlight while the sidewalks and porticos around the zócalo buzzed with people out for the evening paseo. A few blocks way, at the hostel where I checked in, a pleasant surprise awaited. Belinda and Coree, old friends from Zacatecas days, called out to me from across the courtyard. After receiving a brief low down on their visit to Guanajuato, I arranged to meet them for drinks later. In the dormitory I took the wheels of my bike before secreting it beneath my bunk. That key would definitely turn up, I told myself.
There'd been six of us in the end. Asides from the girls, there were two Californian guys who were part of a language exchange in Guadalajara. And an Icelander, the first I'd met, bearded and taciturn. We found a cantina and got the cervezas in - uno, dos, tres... I'd wanted to ask the Icelander for his autograph but he was way too serious. Thankfully, nobody was so foolish as to go down the tequila route. We were back by two - it had been a decent enough night.
I rummaged through the panniers next morning - to no avail. Things were a bit hazy. I needed a cerrajeria. The bloke on reception told me where one could be found. I'd paid a good few quid for the lock. It was big and chunky: a solid steel U-bend coated in a layer of rubber. 'Enough to see off the most determined bicycle thief', the salesman had said. I tracked down the locksmith in an arcade opposite the imposing former Convent of San Francisco. His confident tone put my mind at ease. I left him with the lock and went off to explore the city.
Valladolid - as it was originally named - was founded by sixteenth century colonialist. The settlers had been loath to set up in the nearby 'Indian capital' of Patzcuaro and sited their rival city some fifty kilometres to the west. Valladolid grew rich on deposits of gold and copper from the surrounding hills and in time it came to supplant Pátzcuaro as capital of the state. After independence the city was renamed Morelia, in honour of its native son, Jose Maria Morelos y Pavon, a guerrilla leader who was executed by the Spanish.
The city sits at an altitude of some nineteen hundred metres in a broad valley enclosed by volcanic hills covered in pine forests. Its colonial heart has been preserved almost in its entirety and is laid out on an easy to navigate grid system. I spent a couple of hours wandering around admiring baroque churches, arcaded plazas and elegant women. Late afternoon sunlight highlighted the rose-tinted stone from which the city is built. I was dawdling through the shady zócalo crunching the remains of an ice-cream cone and wondering why there were so few tourists around when I ran into Coree and Belinda. The girls had spent the afternoon investigating some of the city's various museums. They gave me a run-down as we roamed the streets in search of liquor.
Mariachis with a message
As twilight descended upon the zócalo courting couples colonised the benches around the bandstand driving the less romantically inclined to the edges of the square. Mariachis, cloaked in black with dark sombreros, serenaded the evening strollers. The cheerful strains of an accordion soothed the sound from passing traffic. Above the square, the twin towers of the baroque cathedral soared some two hundred feet into the ether, illuminated by floodlight. I kept an eye out for the police while the girls surreptitiously filled up their Coke bottles with rum. Then it was my turn to play the hobo.
Drinking in the zócalo was a very enjoyable - as well as economic - way to pass an evening and the girls proved amusing company. Coree came from a hippie Jewish background in the Mid-West while Belinda came from a chicano family in the border city of El Paso. They'd met in Chicago before moving west to Portland where they were involved in the punk music scene. Now, after packing in their jobs, they were on their way to Central America on a voyage of discovery. I loved their stories of getting busted by cops enforcing puritanical laws or of going loco down in Juarez.
The girls took off for 'el defe' the following morning. I spent the afternoon wandering around the city in the company with Alejandro, a student from Guadalajara. We walked out to the arches of seventeenth-century aqueduct that supplied the city with water and followed them as far as the Bosque de Cuahutemoc, a shady park peopled with picnicking families and discreetly courting couples. Later that evening we ventured out again in search of nightlife. But the city was quiet - it seemed there wasn't a bar to be found. Alejandro speculated that the dearth of entertainment venues was a side effect of the strict ordinances governing the preservation of the colonial city but what did he know, he was a blow in. We ended up paying way over the odds for a beer in a poseur's joint off the main drag and then called it a night.
'Manana' said the locksmith. I supposed I could handle that. The weekend was over and the hostel was deserted. I killed time: wandered around, paid a cursory visit to a museum, sat in the zócalo reading a newspaper; spent a couple of hours surfing the Internet. Later in the evening Phil showed up - I'd encountered him previously in Zacatecas - and we went out for a bite to eat.
It was becoming a routine: the five blocks, slightly uphill, to the zocalo; the passage under the arcades behind the cathedral; the wide, open Plaza de Valladolid with its ornate fountain; round the side of the church of San Francisco and into the commercial centre. I found the locksmith wrestling with my lock. He was scruffy and unshaven. The scent of sweat filled his booth. Again he uttered that dreaded word: 'manana'. I went out to the plaza, sat by the fountain and lit up a cigarette. What to do? How about - buy a new lock! I'd already checked out what was on sale - nothing sturdy enough to deter the hordes of thieves who surely awaited me on the coast. My bicycle had assumed a value out of proportion to its actual worth. It was my psychological crutch, the reason for my adventure. Without it, I was just another boring backpacker doing the same old shit - I might as well go home.
Phil was forty-something from the Bay area of California, and knew Mexico well. He was a 'foodie' with the waistline to show for it. We went to the market for a look around. A porter carried in a huge slab of beef of beef - the dead animal's testicles swung to and fro around the porter's shoulder like a pair of grotesque earrings. Strange aromas filled the air and severed pigs' heads grimaced from butcher's counters. I felt queasy. We left the meat hall and I relaxed. Phil was now in his element. He led me through narrow aisles past shops devoted to beans, corn and maize. Displaying a passion hitherto unseen, he waxed lyrical on the difference between this bean and that or what type of flour went into which tortilla. We moved into the herb section. I made an effort to appear an enthusiastic student and Phil questioned a merchant in great detail about the origin his cilantro. The guy bagged some up but we'd already moved on.
The next day the locksmith shrugged and admitted his failure, which hardly came as a surprise. I found my lock with his colleague around the corner - the guy looked more presentable. 'Come back tomorrow' he told me. 'What's another day?' I thought and went off to look for an Internet cafe. I phoned home in the evening to wish my old man a happy birthday: the weather was awful; there was a bug going around; work was a drag; and so-and-so from up the road had hanged himself.
I was sitting in the hostel courtyard later that night when a miracle of sorts occurred. Bored senseless, I emptied out my wallet for the umpteenth time. From amid a bundle of receipts I'd stashed in some secret pocket protruded a key - the key. I'd had the damned thing all along and I'd bloody well known it! In my other hand I held a small wooden cross, a souvenir of Bethlehem, which had tumbled out from another part of the wallet. The cross was broken in two. What was going on? And what were the implications for my karma? I searched for the answer without success. Eventually I burst out laughing. The receptionist threw me a strange look.
Next morning, I retraced my steps to the Convent of San Francisco. 'It's a strong lock', said locksmith number two, 'and I can't open it'. 'Never mind, just give me two copies of this', I told him and went off to find some coffee. An hour later I was back at the hostel, lock in hand, keys safely secured. It was time to get back on the road.
