Mazunte Photos

Sunrise...

Mazunte, from Punta Cometa

Lovers/fuckers on the main beach

Where I slept (like a baby)


These little buggers were everywhere, I wasn't quick enough to catch one of the many Hummingbirds though :(


Playa rinconcito, as seen from my 'room'

Two of the local dogs on their regular morning walk. There was also a goose on the beach!?


Punta Cometa – a bit like Cape Byron, but no lighthouse


Sunset from Punta Cometa

Mazunte to Chiapas (with apologies to HST, who I've been reading a lot of)

There's nothing quite like child labour to kill the buzz of two weeks of sitting on a beach smoking mota all day. 14 hours on a bus over two mountain ranges helps take the shine off too...

Arriving to San Cristobal de las Casas in the state of Chiapas (Mexico's southernmost and poorest), it's immediately obvious why the Zapatista movement would have started here. Much like the Basque country in Spain, which gave rise to the 'terrorist' group ETA, these people have really got the short end of the stick. Mexico City, Oaxaca – fuck, even the beach hamlet of Mazunte, where I locked down, navigating an emotional fuck-around of a time – are all undoubtedly Mexican, developing world places.

But in Chiapas the desperation and the misery are staring at you like balaclava-clad eyes of the Zapatistas at every corner. The cunt-paradox of endorsing child labour in the form of a shoeshine or some trinket or other - or not - is always around. Do you give these poor Mayan kids the few cents they desperately need? Or do you politely, repeatedly decline and direct your time, money, efforts and consciousness to addressing the cause of the malaise rather than the sickness? The eternal question.

I write this, suitably listening to Rage Against the Machine outside a San Cristobal hangout called Bar de la Revolucion, replete with images of Mexican Revolutionary heroes, who've long dreamed and died in their attempts to free their people from this terrible lot. In true clash-of-civilisations style, there is a Burger King directly opposite, where many of the not-so-revolutionary gringos will fill their fat faces with shit after dancing to Manu Chao all night.

The perverseness of this scenario is something akin to eating a plate of human faeces after spending a fortune on prime seats at the opera, ballet or any other bourgeois, high-cultural pursuit you might care to mention. But for 99.98% of gringos – at least of those I've met – this is as logical a thing to do as lighting a fag after rolling off whichever English/Australian/Canadian/Yank you've had the good or bad fortune of doing the horizontal salsa with that night. No wonder they fucking hate us. Not that the locals are above doing the same, of course.

Getting bogged down in philosophy and politics like usual, you fool. This was meant to be a post about how great a time I've been having in a place of heart-wrenching natural and human beauty; tales of Mezcal, mota, reggae, sun, crystalline water and abundant wildlife. Suffice it to say that Mazunte was all this and more – the skeptic-mystic duality that tends to turn my cerebral cortex in on itself had no difficulty in reconciling the presence of the 'energy' of this place.

I swam, ate, drank, smoked ad infinitum, day-in, day-out. I lived by the movement of the sun: rising with it, knowing the time (another absurd concept) by its position in the sky and its influence on the bountiful fauna of land, sea and sky. My only anchor in the 'real', ugly world of outside was a tube of Colgate toothpaste (no soap or deodorant for two weeks, but you can't avoid wanting clean teeth), monetary exchange and sporadic internet contact. Fuck everything else, it holds as much significance as our pitiful roles in this great universal clusterfuck.

Again with the philosophy... It's dark now, too dark to write without a light, and the cold that altitude brings has quickly descended. Time to get warm and revel in the milk of human kindness of another group of randoms.

Glad to have gotten that off my chest. Photos when I'm not on a stolen internet connection that comes and goes with the wind.

Viva Zapata!

DF, Teotihuacán & Oaxaca

I'm starting to think that the URL of this blog was a mistake, as it becomes increasingly obvious that I'm going to be spending more time in Mexico than anticipated. Being a pedant for things geographical, I feel like a bit of a nuf nuf, as I'm really in North America. But who really cares, right?

After recovering for a few days in Mexico City, I managed to actually get up and see some sights, and learn a little more about this place. I changed hostels to Hostel Amigo, in the centre of the city, and was instantly surrounded by Aussies, loud music and lots of partying. It was an entirely different Mexico City to that of Coyoacán, the tranquil village Frida and Co. called home.

Back on my feet, and with new bunch of amigos to hang out with, I made the trip out to Teotihuacán, a pre-Aztec site complete with pyramids. Funnily enough, that very day the Mexican media were reporting how a sound and light show planned for Teotihuacán had been called off after the Anthopologists Union had discovered the rigging of the lights had damaged the pyramids. The idiots drilled holes in the 2000-year-old ruins, and understandably people were upset...

This is the Pyramid of the Sun. Now with extra holes in it.
The view from top...
My crew for the mission – two Aussies, two Argies, a yank and a pom.

I also found time to check out part of the National Museum of Anthropology, which collects various ruins and artefacts under one huge roof, all organised into theire respective pre-Colombian ages and empires. The place was huge, such was the depth and variety of cultures in this part of the world until the whiteys came and fucked it all up. This isn't to say there wasn't war and empire beforehand - in fact the anthropology museum makes it pretty clear there was plenty of that going on, especially at the hands of the Mexica, who came to dominate most of the other mobs on the ground at the same time.

I was under the impression that photos were a no-no, so I can't share with you the wonders of this place. You would honestly need at least two full days to see everything it has to offer. Incredible.

I took this from wikipedia... the centrepiece of the Anthroplogy museum – La piedra del sol, Stone of the sun.

From here I took an overnight bus to Oaxaca City, a hotbed of political activity and as it turns out, amazing street art. The shit hit the fan in Oaxaca in 2006 after a teachers strike turned into a bigger issue when the Mexican Federal Police were sent in to shut things down. Peolpe died, the city was under siege and the previously peaceful city found itself at the vanguard of the struggle against the Mexican state and its all-powerful police force and miltary.

I've managed to track down some of the artists and ask them about their work, their politics and what's happening here and now and have taken about 200 photos of the awesome work they're doing. I'll put the photos up once I've had a chance to put them through photoshop.

Coolest things about Mexico so far:

• The guys selling CDs on the Mexico City Metro for 10 pesos
• The people in general
• The music – lots of very talented musos everywhere you go
• The food – especially tlayudas, a speciality of Oaxaca. Imagine a giant (12-14" in diameter) taco stuffed with refried beans, cheese, avocado and your choice of meat. Delicious!
• Mezcal. Despite one of the worst hangovers in my life, it was still fun.
  

Tonight I head for the pacific coast, where I'll be hanging in a hammock, drinking beer and eating fish tacos for at least a few daze.

Montezuma's Revenge

It has to be a record... 32 hours in to my time in Mexico I've been struck down with the squirts.

After finally sleeping off the combined jetlag and Woodford comedown, I set out to acquaint myself with the sprawling madness that is Mexico City. I sat down to a plate of huevos rancheros at a local cafe (organic and vegetarian, no less) and headed to the Frida Kahlo musuem, in the suburb of Coyoacán, where I'm staying.

The museum is Frida's family house, known as the Casa Azul, or Blue House. It has been tastefully converted into a musuem dedicated to the life and work of Frida and her malingering husband, and renowned artist in his own right, Diego Rivera. Seeing all the random letters and personal belongings of these two massive personalities was just as exciting as seeing some of their works – particularly impressive was Diego's collection of communist pamphlets and their studio space, complete with half-used paints, pastels and the like.
Unfortunately, no photos were allowed inside, so you'll have to come and check it out for yourself .

This is a shot of the outside of the studio. Frida and Diego were avid collectors of pre-Colombian artefacts, which feature throughout the house and its gardens.

Feeling particularly excited, I decided to check out the Zócalo, the city's main square and home to numerous tourist attractions such as the Palacio Nacional and Catedral.

I think photos will speak louder than words – the murals were done by Diego and as far as I can understand tell the story of Mexico, including invasion by the Spanish and the revolution of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata.

I got back to the hostel by sundown and imediately fell asleep, with the familiar creep of nausea beginning to take hold. All I need to say is that I had a shitty night's sleep (no pun intended) and wished like mad I wasn't alone on the other side of the world from everyone dear to me. At one point, in a state of dehydrated delerium, I convinced myself I'd have to summon the repatriation arrangements of my travel insurance, such was the extent of my illness. Thankfully the dreaded bug gave up after about 10 visits to the toilet, when there wasn't anything left to expel from my body.

So here I sit, sharing my shitty experience with you over a litre of rehydration salts. I'm hoping that having been struck down with Montezuma's Revenge so early in the piece will harden me up a bit, and that from here on in it will be all good health and good times.

Touchdown

After a fairly freaky final 24 hours in Oz I made it on to the big bird and to El Lay.

My dear friend Em pointed out that the US immigration officials probably wouldn't be too keen on letting a disheveled punk like me into the country without a return ticket, so last minute flight changes, hair pulling and a sleepless night were all necessary.

Before you write me off for being totally naive, I actually thought that my onward flight to Mexico City would be ample evidence of my intention to get the fuck out of God's Cuntry, but apparently Mexico is now part of the US, at least as far as the slightly confusing US Visa Waiver Program is concerned.

An ugly side effect of NAFTA? Most likely. Evidence of the Yanquis' arrogance toward their southern cousins? Surely. More on that later, no doubt.

Despite this, I have to say my first two hours in the States have renewed my faith in its people, with even the Customs and Border Protection staff surprisingly friendly, and chirpy 'can I help you?' volunteers at every twist and turn around LAX. Maybe they're excited about the prospect of taking the photos of Bush and Cheney down in 17 days time!!! I am. In fact, I'd hoped they'd have done it already.

So here is the first of what should be many blog postings about my jaunt through Central America, coming at you straight outta the food court of the Tom Bradley International Terminal. I'm determined to stay awake all day and actually see some cool shit in LA, as my previous two visits have not revealed the the true radness of this giant