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Published: August 8th 2007
We got on the bus, which was an amazing effort on my part. I could not eat the free ham sandwich proving how sick I feel right now. We left our lonely planet in the cab, I had every faith the cabbie would bring it back, San Miguel is only a small place, just in case anyone finds it, it was left in the front seat of a green and white cab the driver had a moustache and a beer belly.
San Miguel is an old Spanish colonial wonderment, famous for its silver mining and natural spas, steeped in history. The wobbly cobbled streets gave me blisters that hurt like hell, thing is I did invest in some good walking boots for this trip which were worn in well before I came away, however they are too hot and heavy to wear and it is seriously summer hot time here now. I didn’t think I needed to wear in my new summer sandals as they were sold to me as being the most comfortable shoes on earth, how they lied. I did find some cheap flip flops, alas within a few days the delicate insides of my big and middle
toe dissolved into what looked like the flesh of a rotting carp.
The Jardin is a beautiful ancient old church and central point in the main Zacola square, where by day the ex-pats congregate either on their way to palates or armed with laptops the size of old school tables minus the legs along with easels & oils, they clutch handbag sized mini dogs under clenched arms, dressed up in various dog fashions, one pouch had a feather boa wrapped around its neck and came running to the name of Pearl. By night everyone sits in the Zacola to watch the world go by, many mariachi men where selling their talents where for a mere 5 pesos I could have a song personally serenaded by five grown men, but Stu declined. Everyone in the Zacola, including the local youths walk for hours round and round in circles.
I am already five minutes into this trip and gagging for a nice cup of English tea, I’m feeling so thirsty, dry dry dry, although the weather is very mild and not in the least bit humid, I am still evacuating. The bottled water tastes purified not natural which failed to
quench, I thought this was a natural spa town? We went for a dip in the famous La Gruta hot springs, alleged to help cure all known disease and illnesses, it felt nice and clean but alas the shitting continued.
We went through a trippy white tunnel in to the natural spa’s secret cave; this had a big echo and a small white plastic conduit that acted as some sacred modern waterfall which healed the sick elderly. Many older folk were visibly trembling as they struggled to hold each other’s legs up to catch the trickles of sacred water, like stage divers in a mosh pit they raised legs at 90 degree angles so their crippled feet could be touched and healed by the sacred warm spring water, 3 hale Mary’s later, from me not them.
I felt this ritual was holding things up for the rest of us who were patiently queuing and bitching behind them, then we were told the fountain was to be turned off in 15 minutes by the pool attendant, the tutting, eyebrow raising, curse mutterings started from us extending to the French, the Americans looked pissed off and took their time regardless but the queue diminished within 9 minutes, just as the skin from beneath my crippled feet had near dissolved to the bone, I made it to the sacred falls just before close down, I felt no divine presence and my body still ached days later.
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