Dirty old town.

---

But our convalescence in Morelia was at an end, and we were called upon once more to drag our sorry arses out of bed earlier than our usual 10 am. As we chiselled the sleep from our eyes we were surprised and bemused to find that our empty hostel was nothing of the sort. There were, in fact, quite a few people staying there, sitting in the courtyard, smiling their buenos dias's at us.
Not only that, they were also eating the free breakfast provided by the hostel, a breakfast that finished at 10 am. As such, we had not seen it before. Oh well, live and learn. We ate our toast and coffee and headed for the bus station.

We wanted to go to the west terminal in Mexico DF – called Poniente or Observatorio. DF has four bus terminals, at each of the compass points, and the one we were heading to was only a few stops on the metro from our hotel. We had managed to get a 45% discount by booking the hotel online – the Hotel Prim – making it cheaper than any hostel we could find. The bus we went on, an ETN bus, was also a pretty good deal. A cheap ticket, and the flashest so far. Only 3 seats across, masses of room, and wifi on board. It had more room than you get in first class on a plane. Not so flash that it had self inflating puncture proof tyres, as we were to find out.

Anyone familiar with long roads, like those down the guts of Australia, would be familiar with the sound. BANG, dukka dukka dukka dukka.....
Even better, the tyre was right under our seats, so there was a massive thud, about in line with my left bum cheek, I reckon.
The driver was also clearly familiar with the sound, as he calmly pulled the bus to a stop, threw a quick “un momentito” down the aisle, and walked around to have a look. One arm folded across his middle, the other hand doing the thumb and forefinger rub of the chin in the standard blokes' “hmm, there's something wrong with her” pose, he surveyed the damage.
He got back in the driver's seat and onto the radio. A brief discussion, all but inaudible, ensued. “See?” I said to Klaire, having caught the words for 'other bus', and being very knowledgeable in general, “They're clearly going to send another bus, that's what always happens in situation like this.”
I was taken somewhat aback when the driver fired up the bus, gave a quick shoulder check, and pulled back onto the highway.
“Nah,” Klaire opined, “I reckon they've told him to drive to the nearest tyre place, probably just up the road” As is often the case she was correct. It turned out, though, that 'just up the road' is a relative term.

At first, the sound was rhythmic, soothing, like being back on the train. Dukka, dukka, dukka, without the bang. The driver was clearly a little uncomfortable driving on the flat, so he kept the speed pretty low, around 40km/h. Then, as he remembered that the rear wheels were double wheels, or maybe as he had some sneaky tequila, he grew in confidence. The speed steadily increased, and as it did, so did the noise - the dukka becoming DUKKA, the steels belts letting go, the acrid smell of burning rubber seeping through cracks in the floor. The sound became more insistent. Some might say urgent. Me, seeing as my seat was directly above the wheel well, I'd probably use the word disturbing.

Eventually, I decided there was enough steel between me and the stripped wheel to last 50ks, and started to listen to the noise. It would progressively get louder and louder, the burning rubber smell stronger, until it got to an incredible thumping which shook the whole seat. Suddenly, it would stop, as the next chunk of rubber let go and peeled off down the road. Then it would start again.

Up the road, about an hour and 60 kms later, we arrived at the tyre place. A couple of mechanics were lounging around, leaning up against a ute, sharing a cigarette under the no smoking sign, as we pulled up. As their gazes drifted to the wheel, which was unseen from our position on the bus, their mouths opened slightly, one with the cigarette dangling precipitously from the corner of his mouth.
Driving on the flat had, of course, seized the wheel nuts nicely, so it was going to take a little while. By that time, the spare bus had turned up and parked in front of us, and the driver advised us that we could change. We both decided that would be disloyal, and stayed put. Also, I wanted to finish watching the movie.

We did arrive in DF eventually, and only a couple of hours late. Emerging from the bus station, we negotiated a busy road with no discernible traffic controls, and looked around for the entrance to the Metro. There seemed to be a market where the Metro should be. Klaire spotted a couple of people with bags and, sheep-like, we followed them into the station, packed with other people with bags and presided over by heavily armed cops gliding about on roller blades. Being the end of the line the train was empty, but by the time we had got 5 stations it was packed. I was jammed between two old ladies engaged in a very animated discussion. Every so often one of them, not much taller than my backpack which she was leaning against, would break the conversation, look up at me, smile, then continue the conversation.

Finding the hotel didn't present a huge challenge – the Hotel Prim, in General Prim street. I'm not sure who he was, but he was proper, I guess. The hotel looked a bit flash for the likes of us, but we went in anyway. I was suspicious when the porter took our bags and wandered off to the room. He offloaded them in the room, fussed around a bit. In hindsight, he may well have expected a tip. Unfortunately for him we were not American – no tip was forthcoming. Anyway, I'm not in the habit of doling out gratuities for things I can do myself and did not ask to be done for me.

The next task was to locate the old people, I mean, mum and dad. They were meant to meet us there, but we had no idea what time. What on earth did people do before mobile phones? We were forced to relearn. We left a message with the desk bloke and went out for a drink.

Walking out into the cool night air, we headed vaguely south. It may have been the wind, but I could have sworn I heard....felt....something. What could it have been?

Ah! There! Off in the distance, a giant Maradona. Clearly, it was destiny. And it was open. And it was close. So we stopped for a beer.

It was early, only 8:30pm (jeez, I love Mexico), so the place was only just opening. Eventually, we spotted the older folk walking down the street and called them over. Over they came, similarly beguiled by well-fed Maradona I suspect. Catching up, food, drinks, done. There was an event on inside the bar, so we figured we would wait around and see what was what.

At 11pm we all concurred that the Mexicans had, once again, outlasted us and retired to the hotel for a night's sleep.

So, it happened that everyone except me had read “The Lacuna” - a book by some chick with an odd name all about Mexico, so it became necessary to visit Frida Kahlo's house and the Diego Rivera museum. So we did. A cheap metro ride from where we were, no more than 3 pesos each, and we were in the rich suburbs.

So, Frida Kahlo, she of the monobrow and bright colours. I don't mind saying that I found her art entirely underwhelming. However, I wouldn't let that discourage any of you, as everyone else was suitably impressed, her house is definitely worth the visit – I must lack that requisite zig a zig ahh to really get that stuff, I think. And another thing - her house was entirely unsuitable for one supposedly committed to the socialist cause.

Trotsky, on the other hand. His house was fantastic. Proper Communist, none of the bourgeois about old mate Leon. Gun turrets, rabbit hutches, a giant hammer and sickle tombstone – the full Russia house.

After a day of ideological reinforcement we craved a touch of decadence. In a happy coincidence which had been planned for months Klaire had arranged to meet up with a friend from work who was also in Mexico, Chloe. Feeling again the lack of mobile contact we arranged to meet at the only bar in Mexico City we could remember the name of, King's Pub in Condesa. It was just as we remembered it from weeks prior, except that now we had more of an idea of the reasonable price for a beer. Cripes, it was expensive! Still, a nice dinner was had by all.

Being the tightarses we are, we decided to walk the 2kms home from Condesa to our hotel.
I have always comforted myself when I walk through dark, threatening streets with rational thoughts.
“Sure, people say it's dodgy, but, really, why would someone spend all that time lurking in the shadows on the off chance that someone will wander past?” Used to make perfect sense.

As we walked past a group of blokes hanging around outside the Oxxo, who watched us go past, then whistled to a few more of their friends, and gestured in our direction, a couple of extra things occurred to me. First, oh of course, no one is lurking, they're just hanging out. Second, maybe a taxi would have been a good idea. Third was to maybe alter the direction somewhat and not walk down the unlit side street we had been heading for.

The three blokes behind us followed us for a bit, then abruptly stopped, and walked back towards the shops. Probably coincidence, maybe not, it did feel just a touch threatening. Dirty, interesting, massive – you could spend a lot of time in Mexico City.

---

Photos

Zocalo Snow, Mexico City
There was also an ice skating rink and a downhill slope

Santa Protest, Mexico City
The street performers were protesting against government restrictions

Frida Kahlo's courtyard, Mexico City
Note the frippery

Trotsky's Courtyard, Mexico City
More functional than Frida's

Trotsky's memorial, Mexico City
He was murdered by a Soviet agent by an icepick to the head

Trotsky's Desk, Mexico City
The one in his library of sorts

List of Bolshevik Comrades, Mexico City
Of the original members of the first meeting, only Stalin and Trotsky were still alive. Trotsky was murdered soon after this.

The spanish translated as " piece of sheep" ...
It was.

Comments

[Sam]

Awesome pics!
Great post and awesome pics. You're making my feet very, very itchy x

[Slowfeet]

Memories
Mexico City seems like ages ago; thanks for the post. Agree about Frida's later art - liked a lot of her portraits though. Her house was very colourful and didn't need to be functional because she was rich and had servants to worry about things like that.

[Klaire and Adam]

itchy feet
only one sure cure for itchy feet, and that's to scratch them on the sand of a foreign beach....