Posts Tagged ‘Mexico’

My first trip out of the United States, other than to Canada, which is only 75 minutes from where I grew up in Seattle, was to the city of Guanajuato, Mexico. Guanajuato is the capital city in the state of the same name in Central Mexico and in fact, to locate it quickly, just pull out a map of Mexico and point to the exact middle. At this point in my life I had put myself through college and just graduated–living on my own with barely enough money left in my savings account to avoid it closing. I recall feeling actual joy if my weekly paycheck had enough left over after rent, student loans, and food for me to afford a Rolling Stone magazine. Taking a trip was the last thing I’d considered though I was tired of going through the motions–of working at the same job I had while in college (a footwear consultant — aka shoe saleswoman — at an Orthopedic Shoe Store in Seattle) and having second thoughts about graduate school and getting my teaching degree in which I would only earn slightly more than my current gig.

My cousin Ryan was headed to Mexico to study Spanish at the University of Guanajuato and to live amongst the locals for an unplanned period of time. Backed by his parents and his general desire for adventure, this was a perfect fit for him. I had known he was going for a while, but it wasn’t until he was down there and I got the invite from him to “come down for a few days” that I considered going. Of course my initial cautious “something bad will happen” mind immediately started running movie reel flashbacks of every scary Mexico-based movie I had ever seen (a piece of advice—do not watch the movie Traffic the night before leaving for Mexico) and phone calls to my best friend where I repeatedly asked, “But what do YOU think?” kept me from committing to a visit. However, after an extremely difficult day at the shoe store with an elderly woman who needed her custom shoes with bunion supports literally shoved onto her feet by yours truly, I realized that I too probably had a desire for adventure and even if I didn’t, I should—Mexico had got to be better than what I was dealing with here. That afternoon I cleaned out my savings, headed to the Seattle passport agency, paid a rush-processing fee and two days later I had my passport and my ticket to Mexico.

Admittedly, I was a naïve traveler and looking back at all of the (what turned out to be empty) warnings from family and friends, I am actually surprised at how I was at all confident venturing out. It is no secret that Mexico had (has?) a negative reputation for, among other things, corrupt police, leering men and unsafe drinking water. I tried to prepare as best I could and headed to the airport with my backpack filled with my journal, a few changes of clothes and since it was pre-9/11 and liquid was allowed—pepper spray and five 1- Liter bottles of Dasani water to help ease the worry of having to drink Mexican water– for at least a couple days.

Flying into Leon, the main airport in the state, was a breeze after a short layover in Dallas—and Ryan picked me up there via taxi. To this day I recall his condescending chuckle when I showed him the water bottles I had brought, assuring him to not worry, because “I brought plenty for both of us”.

Headed to our destination through the afternoon sun filtered by small dust storms our taxi produced as it jostled and bumped down roads populated with broken down vehicles, considerable potholes and half working toll bridges, I marveled at the jagged brown mountains and felt a calming sense when I noticed the recognizable landmark—a destination of a yearly pilgrimage and the known geographic center of Mexico– Cristo Rey del Cubilete (Christ the King Shrine) in the distance looking down upon us.

Ryan was staying with a local family he met through the University so he took it upon himself to find me affordable and safe lodging. The place he found was a family run, Spanish speaking, shared house dwelling also called a Pension. Important side note: I have neglected to mention that my Spanish speaking skills consisted of what I had learned my sophomore and junior years in high school which wasn’t much. Thankfully I had Ryan and I could tell his Spanish classes were paying off when I heard him rattle off something or other in Spanish to the Senora in charge and at once I felt comfortable (it was later that I realized he had asked her “if the washing machine was serving dinner tonight?”).

The female-only shared room where I would be staying was large and on the first floor. There were six twin beds, each spaced modestly apart and allocated a small dresser with a large bowl and pitcher of water for washing. The room was dimly lit and only sparsely decorated with antique portraits of Mexican woman crookedly hung on the walls and a few unmatched wood chairs that seemed too fragile to be functional. I chose the bed near the window and closest to the door should I fall victim to yet another warning I received about Mexico –tourista– and therefore require hasty escape to the shared bathroom down the hall. My room was the only one of its kind in the Pension. The other rooms were private rooms most with private bathrooms, but also more expensive: $17 US a night. The cost of my room was $8 a night, what seemed like an unreal bargain to me, until Ryan told me he was paying $2 a night at his place. The Pension had two floors and overall was in the shape of a giant square. The bedrooms on both floors were situated along the perimeter with the inside square open to the elements and filled with foliage, an ornate fountain and more bird cages than I had ever seen. The second floor had a small staircase that led to a teeny 3rd story perch perfect for afternoon beverages and gazing up at a statue of a local hero: El Pipila.

My shared room with its low price was bound to have some drawbacks: my pillow felt as though it was stuffed with the little candy conversation hearts given out on Valentines Day, there was no secure area to keep my belongings and a run of the mill pad-lock was the sole mechanism to lock the bedroom door. Every guest in the Pension had a key to the main door, but each individual room was kept secure by just a pad-lock. Whatever time one of us girls came back to our room at night we had to check the beds to make sure we were the last in for the night. If we were, the pad-lock went on and the key was to be placed on the hook inside the room near the door. If we weren’t the last in, the padlock remained unlocked. Looking back, I can recall being a bit nervous about this—not to mention feeling a bit odd about checking the beds of women I had barely met and some that stayed only a night or two at a time, but I somehow got through… perhaps because I didn’t get in until very late each night and immediately as my head hit my pillow (as uncomfortable as it was) I was asleep and any suspicious noises were drown out by the constant loop of the same three Ricky Martin songs from the bar down the street.

Ryan had class every day so I pretty much had the city to myself until meeting up with him each evening around 5 o’clock. I spent the days wandering and purposefully getting lost amongst the colorful haciendas, the flea markets and the seemingly endless town squares. Most streets were still with historic cobblestones and friendly merchants and locals who offered directions and, as I discovered, unlimited amounts of purified bottled water. It didn’t take more than an afternoon for my initial fears of this trip to evaporate from my mind. This city and its residents were always ready with a sincere smile or to assist me with what ended up being makeshift Spanish classes—helping me with translation even if hand gestures were what we had to resort to for understanding each others’ message. It was on these walks that I also discovered my love of Mexican street dogs. At first glance you cannot help but feel pity for these dogs. They are malnourished, likely diseased, not super personable and mangy as hell… but they still have the sweet, soulful eyes that all dogs have in common. The local people treat them kindly with scraps of food and basic tolerance, the dogs are neither fearful nor aggressive– and are respected residents of this town.

a line up of street dogs

cobblestone street

Guanajuato is a very historically well-known city in Mexico’s long history. It was founded in 1554 and became a recognized city in 1741. It is located in one of the most plentiful silver mining areas of Mexico, and silver jewelry, belt buckles and crafts are abundantly sold all throughout the state. As with most Catholic influenced towns in Mexico, Guanajuato doesn’t have a shortage of churches. The church of San Diego as well as the Church of la Compania de Jesus was the closest to my Pension, about two blocks away, and I would often sit on the outside steps leading to the massive doors to people watch and write in my journal.

Guanajuato also has at least half a dozen museums that are worth a visit including the extremely interesting and somewhat morbid Museum of the Inquisition located in a former hacienda that dates back to the seventeenth century. Here visitors can see various torture instruments used during the Spanish Inquisition. Perhaps the most well known museum these days is also my favorite in the city; Guanajuato is the hometown of the artist Diego Rivera, or as some of you may think of him, Frida Kahlo’s husband. Rivera’s boyhood home in the city has been transformed into a museum and each floor is filled with his paintings, letters and personal possessions owned during his life.

The museums in Guanajuato are very well kept, formal and quite popular among visitors during the many festivals the city has throughout the year. One museum though that is probably the most well known in Guanajuato is situated just outside the city limits. After meeting Ryan one early afternoon for a usual lunch of guacamole and chips at our favorite hole in the wall restaurant we ran into one of his professors who insisted that if we fancied museums, we must go to the famous Mummy Museum (What I still find odd to this day is how instantly I was intrigued by this idea).
We took down his general directions that consisted mainly of “go down the dirt road to the left when you see the burnt tree” or “stay to the right of the road when you see the Volkswagen on its side with no hood” and “if you get to the lake that has cows drinking from it, you have gone too far”. It was intensely warm that day and shortly after setting out on our trek I was actually hoping we would go to far and find the cow lake so we could take quick dip. Along the road we passed through smelly, dirty and very sketchy “neighborhoods” where a common sight amongst the broken down vehicles and what I guessed was a burial ground of non-working appliances, were roof dogs that acted as a home’s security system. My love of street dogs did not extend to these guys; sadly, they were raised to be killers and therefore treated very poorly by their owners to ensure they’d become nothing less than a protector to the death of the property they patrolled. It broke my heart to see these dogs — unloved and used for such a horrible, yet distressingly, necessary purpose. I couldn’t watch them as they violently thrashed about barking at me from their perch.

After about a two-hour walk we reached our destination. The museum contains mummified bodies that were once located in actual cemeteries in Guanajuato. It was the law there from the late 1800’s to 1958 that if the family of the deceased could not pay the mandatory “grave tax” at the cemetery (Fifty pesos a year), the body would be dug up and put on display at the museum. The mummification, or accidental mummification as it is sometimes called, happened through the combination of soil conditions and the dry mountainous climate that caused the bodies to dry out before they could decompose. Visitors, and there were plenty as the full parking lot outside proved, tour the various tomb rooms, see the eerie bodies that truly are mummified (some still with hair and clothes covering up still very present private parts) and then stop by the gift shop where t-shirts and key chains can be purchased to forever mark the visit. This museum more than any that I visited on this trip was a tourist trap in every sense of the term—but don’t me wrong, it was awesome!

on the road to the Mummy Museum

In the evenings Ryan and I became one with the locals by gathering with what seemed like the entire city in the main center square. In the US it is the norm to go to work, come home, watch TV, eat dinner and go to bed. Here—families, lovers, street vendors, mariachi bands, mimes and helium balloons shaped as dinosaurs and alligators, paraded around by a gazillion kids, populated the streets and center square until late each night—every night of the week. I became part of this crowd—as witness and participant. I ate churros warmed over coals and sipped on freshly squeezed fruit juice while marveling that these people had real relationships. Interaction with each other was more important than having private time in your own home at the end of the day—something that was so valued in the US. I found happiness with this lifestyle but at the same time it brought me some sadness because I knew it would be impossible to duplicate once I returned home.

Oh yes, returning home.

My trip turned from a week to a couple of weeks to well over a month. I experienced one of the best periods of my life while in Guanajuato. Aside from getting to know the city and the locals to the point that I didn’t feel like a tourist, I had personal encounters that were quite meaningful:
Sitting with Ryan in small cafés, eating endless bowls of guacamole and downing delicious Mexican Cokes with the soundtrack of horrid Mexican soap operas crackling in the background from the waiters’ small black and white TV set, we had marvelous talks for hours at a time and realized even more that we were friends, not just cousins.

On what thankfully was just one occasion during the entire trip after eating something that didn’t sit right with me, I opted to spend the afternoon reading in bed at the Pension and it was on this day that I met Yvonne, a world traveler from Amsterdam, also a tenant in my shared room. Seeing I didn’t feel well, she went out, unasked, and brought back toast to help ease my stomach. Over the years since meeting, I have visited her in Europe and I couldn’t imagine having a better pen pal. She became one of the best friends of my life.

Perhaps the most influential personal encounter I experienced was internal. It has been said that some trips can show one more about oneself than about the place being visited. I saw in myself that as a young single woman I could handle unknown, unplanned situations and that I embraced that feeling. I found I did have a desire for adventure and that the desire has only increased with each trip I have taken since this first one.

Often I plan to go to back to Guanajuato, but I am fearful. Of course the city has changed and modernized and grown—as have I— but I fear if I go back the new memories will replace all the old ones and I will feel disappointed that I cannot repeat the best trip of my life.

city shot

All pictures, except city shot property of Ryan Hoffman, were taken by and are the property of Diana Ellefson. Credit for the picture of Cristo Rey del Cubilete and the imbedded link belongs to Jan van Ommen.