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Water dissolving, and water removing

The city of Valladolid, just inside Yucatan state with Quintana Roo to the east, had been of interest to me for some time, being as it is tropical, has colonial history, is central to many Mayan archaeological sites and is surrounded by cenotes – sinkholes formed when subterranean limestone has been dissolved in water, leaving underground caverns connected to each other across the Yucatan Peninsula. In some cases the 'rooves' have collapsed, allowing vegetable matter and other refuse in, along with sunlight and thus algae, making the water less than appealing. In other cases the rooves are intact, and the water is incredibly pure, save for minerals.

Mother, Nae and I arrived in Valladolid and found it to be much smaller and more relaxed that Campeche or Merida (and being more relaxed than Campeche is impressive). Our accommodation on the northern fringes of town, which was walking distance from the centre, was the Hacienda Sanchez. We had suspicions regarding its authenticity as an historical hacienda, but it had charms enough, including a large collection of heavily-weathered old muskets, lever-action and bold-action rifles, with which Naomi humoured me by listening to my descriptions. It had a small car museum of which the stand-out attraction was a Soviet Москвич. It was here that we saw an actual tarantula, dying though it was, and we bemused the night porter lady by standing around and staring at it.

Valladolid's beautiful Cathedral on the main square is surrounded by palm trees. Around it are yellow stuccoed colonial single story buildings, and as I think back to it now my mind plays Cuban salsa music, though clearly that was not playing at the time. Maybe it's because I was listening to Cuban salsa in the car today, and probably because I like salsa more than the $%&*ing banda music that was almost certainly playing. In any case, the whole feel is tropical. There were even ice-cream cones eaten as we lazily walked through.

East of the main square is the Cenote Zací, which is 45 metres in diameter, with water, in parts, 100 metres deep. Being of the variety with a partially collapsed ceiling, the water is quite manky, though it has fish in it and is surrounded by ferns on the open side, and the remaining ceiling has stalactites, making it somewhat visually appealing. That said, my cenote dreams were not fulfilled.

However, overlooking the cenote is a bar under a large palapa (and I congratulate myself on remembering that word) which sold various locally-made boozes called xtabentún, made with aniseed and honey. Really, it was a very stereotypical trip to tropical paradise, and I have quite fond memories of Valladolid.

The Palaces of Montezuma

After promising a new life for this chronicle, a hurdle presented itself – I found myself overseas without the photos to remind me of the next episodes. Images now in hand, I can report that the next bit was the visit of our friends Nadia and Uli, who came for a few days, one of which was April 9th, 2011. I can't be sure how much either side.

I do recall this: in the lead up to our arrival, the landlady curtained off a section of the living room in anticipation of our guests, laid down a mattress, and went to town with her little signs all over the apartment. Welcome to the apartment, Paul's friends. Don't pull the curtain down (repeated on 3 signs). Turn the hot water off. Use the toilet in this fashion. The last of these was stuck to the under-side of the toilet lid, and upon seeing it I ripped it from its location, tore it up, and swore loudly enough that the flat downstairs, being the landlord's might hear it. No more signs appeared for a while, though I did keep a collection for my own amusement through the years.

As for Uli and Nadia's trip, they were the most relaxing, fun people to have visit – no fuss at all, just good times. Good times, that is except that they each in turn suffered Moctezuma's revenge and not as much as one might hope was seen. Still, they were happy and the good times rolled, aided by Uli's awesome Corona straw hat collected on a cruise of the gulf of Mexico just prior to their visit. We went to Tlatelalco, aka the Plaza de los Tres Culturas, and all attendees greeted it with a spirit of interest and openness to learning. Unlike the previous time I went.

On the 9th we went to the National Palace, on the eastern side of the Zocolo. This is the palace of the executive, which is the president, but he doesn't live there, but rather at Los Pinos in Chapultapec Forrest. I assume this then functions as the office of the president, and it is from the main balcony that the president makes the “Grito”, an historical call or scream, on Independence Day.

Anyways, this was where Moctezuma's palaces were, in close proximity to the Templo Major. Thus, it is the first of the items listed in the Grinderman song referenced in the title (naming error and all) that I have presented to Naomi. The spinal column of JFK might pose a problem.

The Palace has murals by Diego Riviera, complete with shamelessly biased accounts of Mexican history (as best as history records, Cortes was not green and of ghoulish aspect), and a nice collection of various historical artefacts from the Republic, including battle standards. Their display regarding the Mexican Revolution contained the thought-provoking quote that the revolution was the discovery of Mexico by the Mexicans.

Bookekeeping: I've started to go back and add tags to the old entries, a new-fangled magic I've been squinting at with suspicion for some time. You can use these to see about Tlatelalco.
Allow me to break continuity for a moment, as I am back in Italy and I have 2 things to say about Italians that I will otherwise forget.

1) These people have more front than Myers, as they used to say. I have never seen an Italian show any shame, regardless of misdoings. Case in point, this evening I am in a restaurant and go to use the bathroom. The handle turns freely, so I walk in, and find 2 people who have clearly just finished the act of the beast with two backs. I instinctively utter “Whoooaaaa”, turning my head and reeling for the door. The last thing in my field of vision is the girl, having finished pulling her pants up, waving her finger at me and sternly saying “No no no” like I, I dear readers, am the one behaving badly.

2) Advertising here is not the lowest common denominator. One of the larger telecommunications companies, TIM, is currently running an ad where a middle-aged man wearing period costume and a laurel is lost in a dark forest, and another man in period costume appears to help him. The first says something about “Ah, let's go” but the second says “No, I can save you the trouble”, hands him a phone and he speaks to a beautiful lady in a wonderful meadow with trees and gold glowing ambiance and whatnot. Did you get what it was? Don't worry if you didn't – the education regarding literature is not such in Australia that you have much chance.

So, swings and roundabouts. Well-cultured toilet-#$%&ers.

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There's nothin' but blue skies

At some point in my time in Mexico, Google introduced new backgrounds for your personal page, and I had found a shot from inside a sweet old cathedral without a roof. It came with no details as to where in the world it might be, and at some point I changed the image and couldn't change it back. It was with much irony that Google searches could not help me to then identify this church.

Researching our trip to Oaxaca, I learned of a colonial ear cathedral that was described as 'open air' and having no roof, and I made it well known that this was the one thing I cared most about seeing. After leaving the spider monkeys, our bus was scheduled to go to this cathedral, and it was indeed the one I had sought, and so I spent a long time trying to recreate the picture I had lost. The lighting was just right, but the cooperation of locals not giving a damn for moving from my artistic framings was not.

The basilica of the Ex-monastery of Santiago Apóstol was built on land nominally owned by the 1st Marquis of the Valley of Oaxaca, Hernán Cortés. This was disputed, as Cortés was not as richly rewarded as he might have hoped – the Viceroyalty of New Spain was not given to him, as he was a lower noble, and while the above Marquisate was made for him, it was whittled away in size later on. (Interestingly, the title still exists.)

The complex is a mix of many architectural styles, including Gothic, Renaissance, Plateresque and Moorish, and our guide pointed some elements out, including some very unusual capitals. He also gave some examples of Moorish words in the Spanish language. There are also plaques written in native pictograms, and also in Arabic, though I never saw the latter. There are is a painting showing the image of one of the Afro-Mestizo slaves who did the construction.

I have always wanted to climb into a pulpit, and being that no priest here was going to drive me out I took the opportunity, as there is one at the end of a small corridor built into the stone walls. I assume that most pulpits don't have the reek of human urine about them, as this one did.

As to why the basilica is not roofed, I never knew. Construction of the complex was 'paused' in 1570, but I had been told there had been a roof that was destroyed in a conflict. Open air chapel also means an outdoors area for mass to be said, and the complex also had one of these, as natives were distrustful of going inside Spanish building. (There is an example of an enclosed cathedral with a separate outdoor chapel in Cuernavaca.)

Aside from dropping a rusted, jagged metal statue that had been placed in our hotel bathroom onto my toe, and trying (unsuccessfully) to get a tetanus shot, that is all the adventure we had in Oaxaca.

There are maybe a dozen more posts to make about Mexico, and at this rate I'll be done in 4 months.

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Don't you monkey with the monkey

For Day #2 of rambling, Nae, Mother and I employed the services of the same guy to take us to Monte Alban – White Mountain, though whether so named because the mountain was white or because the Spaniard to conquer the mountain was named White Mountain is up for debate. Monte Alban was another Zapotec city, settled much earlier than Mitla (500 BCE versus 1200 CE) and it is indeed at the top of a large hill with fabulous all-around views into valleys below.

It is a point of some contention between Nae and I as to which pre-Hispanic ruined cities were the best to visit. Monte Alban is in both of our lists of the top three. Personally, I think it goes Tajin, Monte Alban, and then maybe Uxmal, though Cuyuxquihui, while far less expansive, has a very sentimental place for us both, owing to its intimacy. Many had singularly interesting features, but but like an Aerosmith album, some are good start to finish, while some have one awesome track but are generally average in all other aspects. Here, unlike one of my drunken tangents, I recall the point: Monte Alban is top shelf.

One may reasonably think that building a stepped pyramid must be a fairly restrictive format, but in fact the different cultures developed remarkably different styles, and it is possible to look at a picture and know which culture did the construction therein. Monte Alban has one of the singularly nicest pyramid styles I saw; somewhat stouter than others, with walls at a much higher angle to the horizontal. The 'Sistema IV' (which shouldn't really need translation) was the best example, and consisted of a pyramid with a walled courtyard system in front of it. There is also a strange arrowhead-shaped pyramid which marries up with some astronomical observation that I forget. There are also fine examples of Zapotec 'dancers', figures carved in relief into standing stones that kinda looked to the first archaeologists like they were dancing. It has since been decided that their limbs are positioned so because they are laying dead on the ground, with their doodles ripped off. These are propaganda images of the emasculated kings conquered by the Zapotecs, their names engraved in Zapotec glyphs next to them so their doodleless shame may be eternal. This shows that not only European statue 'willies' (as my British guide to London said on the topic; but what am I saying? I just said 'doodles') were victim after conquest – conquest makes victim of all doodles.

The Zapotec, like the Maya, made good use of tunnels, as also seen at Mitla. At Monte Alban there is a tunnel that goes from the clearing at the base of one pyramid to its peak (sadly not open to the public), the idea being that a priest could be swallowed up by the Earth on a certain festival day and then magically appear at the top of a pyramid. It should be noted that in these societies (especially so for the Maya), priests where the only class with real education, and used this to keep the lower orders in check by trickery. (This didn't work out so well for the Maya – after a rebellion eliminating the priestly class, the society faced a few hundred years of setback there.)

After Monte Alban, the minibus chugged off to some large... kitchen... place... which seems to have been set up to feed coach loads of people. The name of the place might be lost forever. Nope, wait, it's La Capilla Restaurante. Awesome Google-fu skills. Anyways, see here - this was not our tour company, but seems to do almost identical trips. Over lunch we had local delicacies, and someone, possibly mother, had Chilis En Nogada, something I highly recommend but have possibly already described, and we tried ye olde native hot chocolate, which is consumed by dipping bread into it. I had beer and asked the guide probing cultural questions, of which I cannot recall the answers. This is fine, as I cannot recall the questions. I do recall that it was Modelo Especial beer.

This La Capilla had a large cage with spider monkeys in it. The cage had a large sign saying words to the effect of “Do not touch monkeys because they are not particularly friendly and will bite your hands”. I read this out, but still Mother and Nae wanted to pat the monkeys, and Nae, for her part, is still sad that I was firmly against the idea. She still thinks they wouldn't have bitten her. Looking back at the photos now, the monkeys were the best part of the trip, just because of how happy both Mum and Nae were to see them.


EDIT: I can confirm that Nae is indeed still annoyed that I insisted she not stick her fingers into the monkey cage displaying a written warning against such. Here is an excerpt from our conversation:

"You're actual still annoyed I prevented you from getting rabies?"

"... I don't think you can say that."

"Can't say what?"

"That I would have gotten rabies. And spider monkeys are endangered so I've probably lot my chance to touch one forever."

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Come wid meeee into da treeees

This writing business is a habit, and one I've gotten out of. Must. Find. Discipline.

The bus moved to Mitla, the remarkably well preserved ruins of a Zapotec city that was occupied until the Spanish arrived. It's continued habitation, and the dry climate, and the seemingly light hand of destruction of the particular Spanish that were there account for its intact state, and the latter is even more strange than usual, as this was a religious city. Porfirio Diaz also took an interest, and given his explosives work at Teotihuacan and his drilling of a sewer through the Aztec Templo Mayor, the preservation is no less than astounding. This site has survived all the douche-baggery in Mexican history. That is, except one small part, which was razed to build a church and its out buildings. I did say light hand of destruction.

Mitla didn't so much have 'temple bases', as pyramids actually are, but rather a series of palace and tomb complexes, which one can still walk through the rooms of (including 2 underground vaults), making imagining life there simpler. The walls have stones laid in such a way to form intricate geometric patterns in a non-carved kind of relief. That this culture was interested in mathematics of space in the way the ancient Greek and Islamic Empires were is clear. As I recall, the exact technique by which these tessellations were built into the walls is unclear. The guide attempted to convince us the the nine edges in the steps of the most famous of Mesoamerican patterns, adopted by the Aztecs and seen on their shields, was in fact symbolic of the nine months of pregnancy. This is a fine historical revision, as months as in the western calendar were not part of the Mesoamerica calendars.

The next stop this day (it was a big day) was at a mezcal refinery. I have said earlier that mezcal is the slutty, rough little sister of tequila, and accordingly it is distilled in (comparatively) roughshod roadhouses where tequila is made in fancy haciendas. The open-air method of distillation is the same. The place we went served us lunch, and Mother ordered the stew, but got soup, even though she ordered the stew. Then they brought the stew out, but they had also brought her soup, which she didn't order. She ordered the stew. But they bought her soup. But she ordered the stew. In any case, the guide told me something interesting about the people in the hills near the distillery growing loads of marijuana, but for making spirits out of, rather than smoking, an the over-drinking of this to fend off the cold has led to much by way of social problems.

Finally, as the sun was setting, the bus stopped at the average Mexican village (i.e., lots of stucco, lots of white and yellow paint, lots of no front yards) of Santa María del Tule. Average, except for housing the Arbol del Tule – the 'stoutest', and allegedly oldest, tree on Earth. The scientific consensus on age is 1,433-1,600 years, though the plaque at the site says more than 2000. It is home to some poxy feral cat, and stands a few dozen metres from another tree of the same species that is younger, but of the same order of magnitude in age. The aquifers of the trees have been tapped by the local town, causing them to look like going roots-up, but a new aquifer has supposedly been built into the water system just for them. I can't recall the number, but they drink a ridiculous number of litres of water each day. What do you do if you have two ancient trees standing more than a building's width apart? If you are Mexican, you build another church.

Mirshod returned to Mexico City at this point, having not seen the sea; being that Uzbekistan is doubly land-locked, he had never seen the sea, and we had made it a mission to rectify this, but failed on this attempt.

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Mix-a-Lot's in trouble

While at the museum, Mirshod explained something of the anthropology of his country, or the lack there of. It seems that when Islam came to Uzbekistan, all traces of the former culture were destroyed. I expect this is true, as if much did exist, the Soviets would have found it.

Because time in Oaxaca was limited, rather than indulging in self-congratulatory independence at the expense of mobility, we took advantage of a guide who collected people from their hotels in a minibus and then headed out to sights near Oaxaca City. The two main ethnic groups native to Oaxaca are the Mixtec and the Zapotec, and out guide was a Zapotec. He explained that there are 6 communities in Oaxaca, the exact details of which escape me this late on, but they were basically Mestizos in Oaxaca City, some different settlements of the native groups, and a small community of Africans, descended from slaves brought by the Spanish. He was very particular in stressing that these groups do not marry amongst each other, that there had been no mixing since the colonial period, and that he was in agreement with this policy. He went so far as to express that he found women outside of his group unappealing, and implied that marrying outside would be treachery to his language and people. Nae and I searched for some hint of judgement in this, but couldn't find any; it seemed there was, to him at least, a very rigid wall separating his universe of Oaxaca from that outside, and as we were from outside there was no logic in judging us by the standards of his domain. In any case, he also stressed that the groups lives harmoniously, and was very friendly with fellow tour guides who were Mixtec, where these two groups were bitter enemies in pre-Hispanic times.

The first tour we took went initially off the normal tourist route to the church of San Jerónimo Tlacochahuaya. It was built in the 1500s by natives, under the direction of Dominicans, and they used traditional paints to decorate it, the resulting frescos being still vividly white, blue and brown-red today. The angels painted on the walls were just faces, and our guide suggested that this was because the natives didn't get whether angels are dudes or chicks, so opted to leave off the bodies. The church had a charming, close little cloister, which has monks buried under it, and was being nicely restored while we were there. We were also allowed up a tight spiral staircase to the split-level-above-the-door bit (the proper name of which I do not know – anyone brai... raised in the church?), where there was an organ built in what is now Germany, as I recall, in the early 1700s. There were also flowers made by hand from bees' wax, given as gifts to the ladies, and mother was delighted until she remembered the ban on bees' wax items coming into Australia.

The next stop was Teotitlán del Valle, where Zapotecs still spin wool and dye it with traditional dyes, including cochineal, which is a squished-up bug from a nopal cactus, and a blue dye from the acid-base reaction of limestone and pomegranate. We watched a demonstration on how the dyes are made, and then went into the workshop for the mandatory hard sell on the demonstrator's families tapestries, and a hard sell it was. Mother caved, and I don't know if she's even looked at her tapestry since, but the prices being as high as they were they slotted into the 'major purchase' category, and I would not budge, though I was hassled to the bus.

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The southern state of Oaxaca (Wa-ha-ka) was my next destination, along with Naomi, mum and Mirshod. Oaxaco City itself is quite rustic, maintaining its colonial character of straight streets filled with pastel-painted, stuccoed boxy buildings, large squares, and of course churches and cathedrals. There is, however, a jungle feel to the city, setting it apart from other colonial cites. A feeling from the vegetation almost evocative of the deep south of the US, as crude as that comparison is.

It has a massive anthropology museum in an ex-convent, with a collection starting from the stone age, going through the per-Hispanic era, which is standard for Mexican anthropology museums. Interestingly, it has a large collection of pre-Hispanic gold work; most examples were melted down as booty by the Spanish, making such rare. It then dedicates quite a lot of space to the colonial era, which is unusual; it is the only place in Mexico I saw a morion helmet, the stereotypical conquistador helmet. There are also everyday colonial era items, such a pot stills and ovens. The museum does have a latent, even passive-aggressive anti-Spanish flavour, which is not unusual (the museum in Mexico City, for example, insists Cortés murdered Moctezuma, despite historical uncertainty regarding who killed him – the Spanish or the Aztecs), but it does, despite the general Mexican inability to be objective about their history, document well how life changed for the natives. There was also a large post-independence section, focusing, naturally, on Hidalgo, the heroic independence figure who you get sick to death of hearing about in official propaganda, but also much on Porfirio Diaz, the odious and destructive, but historically interesting, dictator from the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Oaxaca is also famous for mezcal, the rougher, uncouth cousin of tequila. There are apparently many small hole-in-the-wall vendors of the home-made stuff, though Mirshod and I, on a mission, only found one. Outside, it was dilapidated, with flaking, faded sign writing over the whole exterior, and crumbling brick showing through missing stucco. Inside, it was a small, dark room, with rough-cut wooden floor boards and shelves, and barrels everywhere. It was somewhat like an old west saloon. Tasting came from the hollowed skins of half-oranges, and the guy and girl working there were supremely disinterested in service. They had the usual fresh spirit, the reposado ('rested'), and the añejo (aged), but they also had (if memory serves) gusano, made with worm salt, and (no doubt in my memory here), puchuga. This is the Spanish word for breast. All improper options flashed through my mind (as with the bat in Veracruz) – was it made from human milk? I had tried mares' milk vodka in Mongolia. Was some rubbed lasciviously into some golden-brown boobs, and then, laced with sweat, allowed to drip back into the barrel? The answer was, less erotic, but no less weird, that chicken breast was somehow included in the list of ingredients. I do not understand how. It did have a slightly different flavour, but nothing remarkable.

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All this has been the lead-up to the main event in Guadalajara. Absent from the guide books, it is the Tequila Train.

Despite a revolutionary history inseparable from images of flouncy-shirt-and-skirt adelitas and hairy, filthy banditos all aboard steam strains, there are only two passenger trains in Mexico these days – the Copper Canyon train, which I sadly missed, and the Tequila Train.

The reason for this dearth is simple grift, I found out. The conductors pocketed the passengers' fare, and the government closed the passenger services in response. Probably not the first time the government has sacked a whole corrupt sector, and certainly not the last.

The tequila train takes you out from Guadalajara, out through fields upon fields of agave, and to the little town of Amatitán, where the El Jimador tequila distillery is. The train there only takes a short time, and while they keep handing you booze, the trip to too short to get pole-axed. As this is a 'family trip' (oddly), this is probably not a bad thing.

First up, you see a jimador, literally 'groaner', chopping up an agave plant, mature enough at 8 years, by first chopping off the leaves until it looks like a pineapple, in a round about way, using a special tool that resembles a sharpened pizza-into-oven device thing. There is groaning involved, hence the name. They then chop it in half, vertically, chop out a bitter part at the top, and then take it to a giant oven, where it bakes, if memory serves correctly, for 8 hours. Or over-night. Or something.

Jimadors, for the record, wear a white suit of light trousers and pants, with a red neck scarf, red clothe belt, sandals, and a yellow straw hat. Like a certain fast mouse.

On the other side of the ovens, we were given a piece of the baked agave to try, and there is a photo of Naomi looking singularly unimpressed by this sweet, fibrous stuff. The stuff is pulped with water, filtered, and then fermented in large open-top tanks. This is done without the benefit of yeast; instead, citrus trees and other trees which attract manky moulds are planted all around so the spores will do the job. There is then the distillation, the barrel aging, and then the bottling.

The tour then takes you to the ye olde factory buildings: stone cellars where the fermentation was started not by spores, but filthy toe jam from jimadors who had worked in the field all day, stripped, and then jumped in a vat. Nice.

Next you go to a large shelter, where lunch is served, consisting of tongue, as I recall, rice, and the Jalisco speciality – tortas ahogada, or drowned roll – basically a roll with pork in it that is dunked whole into a watery chilli sauce. Mariachis play, dancers dance, tequila is handed out, and then the tour is piled back on the train, for a much slower ride back to Guadalajara, where much booze is consumed, mothers fall over drunk in the aisle, kids start chanting “Tequila! Tequila!”, and the conductors challenge you to do shots.

An interesting fact about this is that while my undergraduate days taught my stomach to instinctively know the cut-off point for vodka, scotch, bourbon, rum and gin, the stomach seems not to know this point for tequila. This is either because it is fundamentally different, and as the available tequila in Australia is so appallingly bad I never drank enough to know its cut-off point, or because it is so fundamentally different that it has no warning of the cut-off point. In any case, one minute I was happily walking the streets of Guadalajara and the next my colour drained and I was running for somewhere to boff.

After Guadalajara, Matt, Mirshod and I made a visit to Teotihuacan, which had had some extensive excavations done since last I was there, including underground parts. This marked the end of Matt's sojourn in Mexico, and soon thereafter Mother arrived.

What a quaint and happy song

Guadalajara gave the world Mariachi music, which in turn gave the world norteño music. This is the same as how Mike Patton has been accused of inspiring Nu Metal. Most regrettable. In any case, Matt and I sought out the Plaza de Los Mariachis, assuming the mariachis would be playing music. They were not. They were playing cards and getting inebriated, which was even more satisfying. Eventually, a dance show began, during which I heard for the first and last time in Mexico the Mexican Hat Dance; it seems Speedy Gonzalez gave me a simplistic impression of Mexico. How surprising. In any case, we tried on the large sombreros (which just means 'hat', really) and made touristic tits of ourselves.

Nae, now over the stomach bug that had hamstrung her (hang on... that is a vertically confused stomach bug) went with us to Lago de Chapala, on which is Isla de los Alecranes, or Scorpion Island, which is sadly not as awesome as its name suggests. Apparently someone once thought that it is shaped like a scorpion. Still, it was a nice day with water and boats and whatnot.

Oi vey, this is hard work, going by only photos, the memory of a brain that is over 30, and an unmarked guidebook (normally I cross out what I've done, but the copy I did that in got left in a bin on my way out, along with about 15 kilos of other stuff I spitefully threw out so my stingy landlady didn't inherit it).

That evening we went to Birrería las Nueve Esquinas (Beer hall of the nine corners) for goat stew. It had some exremely fine Salsa Verde, simply 'green sauce', which I do not think I have mentioned yet in this journal. Green sauce is made of green tomatoes and chillis, and is the best kept secret of Mexican food. Many a 'Mexican food' section of a Melbourne supermarket has been haunted by my forlorn, disappointed countenance in months gone by. I might just have to remove my digit and make the damn stuff.

According to the photos, we also toyed with getting Naomi the suit which is the height of fashion amongst women in central Mexico – the suit which allows good Catholic girls to show off their boobies by having a little grey vest that squeezes in the waist and is cut to go under the bust of a white shirt, and flaunts the goods shamefully and shamelessly at once, with no skin on show. Hmm, now I'm sad we didn't buy one.