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Published: November 19th 2011
If San Miguel is all about sol (sun), Guanjuato is more about sombra (shade). This is not because the skies are cloudy, but more a description of mood, history and geography. Its chiaroscuro streets and enticing alleyways remind me of other places all at once, and I struggle to remember where and to fit the pieces together.
Meanwhile, Lorena, our Mexican property manager, settles us in and offers her services as a tour guide. We warm to her immediately. She is lanky and handsome, and laughs easily. Like obedient ducklings, we follow behind as she rushes ahead, her mannish blue jeans riding high on her long legs. She sluices us through the cool stone labyrinth of underground roadways in her battered VW, swearing at the slower drivers.
“Cheesus Christ!” she grumbles, as if barrelling through the maze of medieval tunnels at breakneck speed is something that happens to people every day. "That guy is a pain hole in the ass," she says.
It feels impolite to disagree.
From the start, these tunnels fascinate me. Where once the river flowed beneath the town, now cars and pedestrians share this covert space, as unimpressed by their subterranean world as
a colony of moles. Above us, the central part of town is compact, a narrow cleft carved into the hillside. We emerge to a collage of houses in crayola colours, an entire town tilting haphazardly onto cobbled streets and flower-filled squares. Mysterious and fascinating, we explore the steep alleyways that wind endlessly upwards. Lorena's map flaps uselessly in her back pocket. Rooftop dogs herald our approach with furious woofing, and then retreat. Lovers linger in shadowy doorways, their arms and lips locked onto each other. As the light fades, we return to our stately home perched above a plazuela.
"Will we see you tomorrow?" we inquire of Lorena.
"Ojala," she replies, using an Arabic term that roughly translates into "if God wills it."
It comes to me in a rush, then, that Guanajuato is part Tuscan town, part Moorish Spain and part Arab medina. I find this notion oddly exciting. It feels like I have discovered something unique, a place that reminds me of everywhere and nowhere at the same time. For no reason I can yet name, it feels like I have stumbled into the heart of Mexico.
Our Spanish lessons begin. Soon the
walls are plastered with irregular verbs, new nouns and useful phrases. It almost transforms our living space from something the Bride of Frankenstein would have dreamed up into a kindergarten classroom, yet the house still retains a certain cockroachy ambience. Our teacher, Jeffrey, looks like Albert Einstein having a bad hair day. With his help, our Spanish improves dramatically. We study at the kitchen table and on the terrace among the potted palms, the creepers and the cacti. We study at the neighbourhood coffee shop, over mugs of lechera and thick hot chocolate. We study in the Jardin de la Union, where men in pressed suits sit having their shoes shined under the sculpted plane trees. We study at the Mercado Hidalgo, amidst the sellers of brooms and baskets, flowers and tortillas, caged birds and sugared pastries.
After a lot of tromping around, Jeffery decides to buy a bird and set it free. For the moment, the irregularities of the Spanish language are suspended. Together with the bemused bird seller, we watch the lorikeet cling to one of the sagging dwellings surrounding the market and finally take flight.
Time stills.
We fall into a routine. No need
to bore you, since we all fall into them and know what a comfort they bring. But somewhere in between our mid-morning hot chocolate and our afternoon siesta, we realize that the pace has slowed. We wander around for hours, trying to locate the elusive knife grinder who plays the pan flute. We hang our laundry in the sun. We sit on the steps of the Teatro Juarez and watch the world go by. A whole lot of nothing and everything.
And just when we’re getting used to this laconic way of being, it’s time to go home. With nothing more to show for our month in Mexico than a bag of dates and an improved facility with verbs, we haul our suitcases across the cobblestones, flag down a taxi, plunge into the left ventricle of the city and join the arterial flow.
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Miri Garaway
non-member comment
Exquisite writing, exquisite photos
I am there with you with your exceptional descriptions. What an amazing combination of sights, sounds and experiences. Thank you for sharing and bringing us to this special corner of the world. Love, Miri