Taxco

Taxis in Mexico City are notoriusly dangerous. The typical danger in getting in a random taxi is that the taxi driver will rob you, or he will arrange to have you robbed by his cousins, either by taking you to them, or having them "hold up" the taxi. As such, you are only supposed to get in taxis which you have called for. The taxis by phone are more expensive but safe.

The hostel called a taxi for me and it arrived ten minutes later. The driver seemed nice enough; he had a cross hanging from his rearview and a New Testament in his front passenger seat. Not that those necessarily deserve an expectation of upright, Christian behavior; porn stars often have crosses eithger hanging from necklaces or tattooed upon them while then engaging in all manner of, decidedly, un-Christian acts (That I am aware of this speaks as to un-Christian aspects of my nature).

At any rate, I felt secure even as he drove me north, then west, then south, then east. I knew this for two reasons. First, I wear a compass around my neck when I'm off "adventuring." Second, we arrived at the south end of the Zocalo (main plaza), two blocks away from my hostel. Were I paying by the meter, I'd have been furious, but, as the ride was a fixed price, I merely thought to myself, "Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!"

Eventually, our circuitous route did in fact lead us to the southern bus terminal. I was slightly amused to discover that the bus to Taxco (and a luxury bus at that) was less than $10US and was less expensive than my, still relatively cheap, taxi ride. I hopped on the next bus and snoozed til my arrival.

I went to Taxco by what I consider to be an edict from no less than the Almighty. Both my mother AND my father insisted I go there. As they have been divorced from each other these 20 years and have agreed only one other time (that I am surely their child, after, as a young boy, I'd casually remarked/hoped I was adopted or switched at the hospital), I had no choice in the matter; Taxco it was.

I lit from the bus at about 4pm and attempted, as best I could, to navigate my way to the hostel I'd chosen from the Lonely Planet guidebook. My problem lay in the fact that Taxco is a colonial mountain town. As such, the streets were extraordinarily narrow and completely devoid of any particular rhyme or reason. The map in the guidebook was about as useful as a fifth nipple. I knew the hostel I'd chosen adjoined the local market, so up I climbed, sure there was no way I'd fail to sight something so basic as a mercado.

Wrong.

In my mind's eye, I envisioned a centrally located plaza, full of shops, laid out in a rational manner. While that might be the platonic ideal of a market, what I accidentally stumbled across was no less than a Daedalusian maze nestled amongst buildings no more than seven feet apart in no arrangement of city planning discernable from sheer chaos. Relying on my army training, I wandered hither and thither, attempting to use obvious landmarks to find my way. Eventually, I located the place but solely because I walked past two gringoes on a stairwell and surmised they must have come from somewhere nearby. Sure enough, I found the Hostal de Arrellana nearby.

The hostel had the simplicity and cleanliness of a Grecian Island Bed and Breakfast. For a modest price, I was given my own room just off the third terrace. The room had two simple, yet thoroughly satisfactory, beds and the communal bathroom was only fifteen feet away. It featured a shower similar to one I'd had in Milan a few years ago, meaning it was in the same compartment as the toilet. Thus, once one removed the toilet paper and trashcan (as in other 3rd world countries, used toilet paper is thrown away, not flushed), a shower had the additional, decadent delight of dousing a household fixture.

Leaving my bags in the room, I wandered out into the labyrinth. It isn't possible to get lost when one not only does not know, but neither cares, where one ends up. Thus, after stumbling amongst rows upon rows of stands offering food, shoes, clothes, dvds, toys, and, above all, tacky silver jewelry, I found myself a block away from a restaurant the guidebook recommended for its particularly local flavor.

The next day, upon arising and walking out for the day, I ran into the two gringoes who'd inadvertently shown me the way there the night before. They did not recognize me because I'd shaved the night before. Once out of Mexico City, the necessity of protecting myself through slovenly appearance had dissipated and I wanted to be able to get a uniform tan...and I wouldn't necessarily mind not repulsing femininas for the duration. At any rate, I met Sander and Albert, twenty-something professionals from Holland just beginnning a five month Latin American trek.

It turned out we were headed on the same path, not only in Taxco, but also afterwards in Acapulco, Puerto Escondido, and Oaxaca, and so then and there decided to join forces. Sander has long reddish curly hair; Albert has short, dirty blondish hair. They both speak English well and joke all of the time. They are incredibly good natured.

As the primary draw of Taxco is its silver, and we were but impoverished travellers, we decided upon going to the famous cave complex, Las Grutas, 30km away. Taxis in Taxco are ubiquitous and are, uniformly, 1970s VW Bugs. Unlike Mexico City, they are not dangerous, save for unwary pedestrians. There are no sidewalks so one must be ever wary when walking along the sides of the streets. Even most of the cars that aren't taxis are VW Bugs, which I'm tempted to think is because other cars won't fit on the streets (though in actuality there are, so maybe Taxcoans really, really like Bugs). As it is, one must press himself against the walls of buildings every few feet as a car passes by, or, occasionally, to step into a doorway so as not to get smushed. Any walking is made all the more challenging by the fact that apparently no one in Taxco works. All day long, the sides of the streets are filled with half the townspeople standing around. The other half are driving the taxis and honking their horns.

We went to the bus station and took a "combi" out to the cave. Combis serve as a privatized form of public transport and are thus, uniformly and expectedly, 1970s VW Vans. We crammed ourselves into a combi and off we went. An interesting, yet thoroughly dangerous, aspect of a combi is that the side door is left open, even when hurtling around hairpin turns at breakneck speeds. There are, of course, no seatbelts.

At the Grutas, we ate a quick lunch outside and then stumbled upon the dimly lit pathway 2km into the interior of a mountain as tour groups of Mexican children shrieked all around us. Unlike most caves which keep a uniform cool temperature and are moistureless, the Grutas had visible clouds of humidity and was stifling hot. I surmised that was from the breath and body heat of the thousands of visitors a day.

When we arrived back at the hotel in mid afternoon, we sat on the upper terrace, drank cheap beer, and basked in the sunshine. We soon struck up an acquaintance with an Australian girl who'd just checked in, and she joined us in our reverie. At first she appeared to be a world weary traveller, but, by and by, that mask cracked. At a point she asked how old we thought she was. Albert and Sander guessed 24 and 25, respectively, but, this not being my first rodeo, I guessed 19 and shocked the astonished teenager with my deft skill at identifying immaturity. Any attraction I may have been able to develop vanished the moment I realized she was a child.

The four of us spent the remainder of the evening jabbering about all manner of nonsense, while drinking beer and searching for a place to eat supper. After supper, old man that I am (or prefer to be), I bid my companions adieu and hit the sack. The next day Albert, Sander, and I were on a bus to Acapulco.