Mas Fotos

My trip to the ruins:
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/deadbabiesrhot/album?.dir=/e56e&.src=ph

Snapshots

The only pix I've managed to shoot so far.

Familia

I share a room with Manuel. He is twenty years old, Catholic. He likes soccer, golf, and mathematical sciences. His favorite musicians are Mexican analogs of Barry Manilow. He is defensive about Mexican history. He doesn´t like arguing, church, The Simpsons, basketball. He sleeps fitfully, flipping about violently, and often utters a garbled admixture of German, Spanish, and English. Wet wads of toilet paper roll out of my ears in the morning - my protection against his noisy somnambulist exploits.

*SLAM*
“What the-”
“Good snaaafffrom maior airnan constamagoar…”
“Shut it!”

When I forget to apply my jailhouse earplugs, it is not uncommon for him to wake me four or more times a night. Such as this:

SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRREEE.
“Shhhhhhh….”
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRREEE.
“SHHH!”
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRREEE
“SHUT IT!”
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRREEE
“Only assholes snore!”
SNOOOOOOORRRREEE
“You bastard!”

Sometimes when his fits are too much, I have no choice but to try to wake him up. I’ll drop bottles on the floor, open the window, or flip the lights on and off. Hey, it sounds mean, but he started it. When I can’t sleep, it’s war. Him or Me. But I always lose. Nothing can wake him.

Last night we watched Sin City. It was his idea.
At the film´s terminus, I asked him, “Did you like that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It was one of the worst movies I´ve ever seen.”
“Why?”
“I just didn´t like it.”
“That makes it the worst movie you´ve ever seen?”
“One of them.”

Once we were watching TV. Elton John came on the screen, an ad for some pay-per-view special or box set or something.
“Eww,” I said.
“Elton John,” Manuel said. “Do you like him?”
“Not really. I guess I like that one song, ‘Benny and the Jets.’ Actually, I take it back – I despise him.”
“I like his song, ahh… oh, 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight.'"

I think that’s the most astounding thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.

Zacatecas

At 8,200 feet, Zacatecas is way the fuck up there, settled in the crotch of two mountain ranges, the furry mound between the legs of the Sierra Madre Oriental and the Sierra Madre Occidental. The air is thin and dry, choking my lungs during exercise and constantly giving birth to crusty boogers in my nostrils. Amidst the chill of the morning, the clouds stroke the tips of the mountains. But when they are swept away in the afternoon, a deep azure reveals itself and the sun stings one´s face due to its proximity.

The city was the site of a great battle during one of the many wars afflicting Mexico in the 19th century. The details of the fight are foreign to me, except that I know it is not uncommon to find skulls, corpses, and swords in the dirt on the side of the mountains, macabre tokens of the great skirmish. And I hear there is buried treasure still to be found in the city. No joke.

I live in the cushy neighborhood of Bernardez, out of the way of the main city and everything else exciting. It is a 30 minute walk to get anywhere interesting, but really the only way to get to the action is by car or taxi.

Unlike in America, where the traffic system succeeds only by everyone playing by the rules at all times, no one in Mexico obeys the laws of the road. Drivers are offensive, and the streets are littered with large, dangerous chunks of garbage. The police hardly ever enforce the law, and when they do, one is expected to simply bribe them with a few dozen pesos to rectify the crime. The fact that crashes are few is astounding. It is frightening, yes, but exhilarating if you ask me.

The city is truly gorgeous to see at night, as yellow globules jiggle on the mountainside, while the beautiful baroque architecture of the downtown area stimulates the intellect. I rarely get a chance to visit the town center, but I go at every possible opportunity in hopes of catching a glimpse of the city´s glorious bustle.

So far, Spanish and my timid digestive system are the only thing standing in the way of my success here. Look out world!

Picante

I always assumed that everyone in this country ate the spiciest food. Ever since I got here people have been telling me that the water and chiles are going to rupture my insides, and I have believed them, assuming them omniscient in the realm of spice. I´ve been eating both and doing fine. I remarked upon this anomaly of good health to some Mexican buddies. They were skeptical, and quickly formed a plan to "make my asshole burn."

"We will take you to a taquería that will make you want to cagar* bigtime," Miguel said.

"Your ass will be in pieces in the morning," remarked Bernardo.

And so we went. Accompanying us was some dude who was declared (I assume in jest) the toughest motherfucker in Mexico when it comes to eating picante. None believed that the gringo could match his ability to tolerate the hottest of hot food. Well we would see, wouldn´t we!

We arrived at the taqueria. I ordered a plato mixto and an apple soda. The salsa was green, and hot. I matched the man with the iron stomach spoonful for spoonful. As I ladled the sauce, the eyes of all were stretched large in disbelief. "Puta Madre!" filled their mouths. I ate. And it was hot. Our eyes begged to cry blood.

I got my dues. "You are brave, gringo. But this guy will be laughing tomorrow when you are dying."

Morning came, and so did the greatest gastro-intestinal discomfort I´ve ever encountered. They were right; My anus burned like hellfire. It was a miserable morning.

Strange - I really only ate as much salsa as I would have had I been alone, and yet everyone thought it was incredible, even my digestive system. And dig this: Today at lunch we had sushi. I expected there to be wasabi and ginger, but I couldn´t find it. I had to ask for it! And when they brought it, my family would have no part of it. "You´re crazy," they said.

So anyway, now I know. Mexicans only eat spicy food? My asshole!

*cagar = "to shit"

Yo Estoy Aqui

I'm in Zacatecas. Our flight encountered a delay at the hands of a thunderstorm, pushing back our schedule by an hour. Not so bad. Immigration was interesting - and easy. Both times I've come to Mexico have been a cinch in a squirt bottle.

I received compliments for my Spanish immediately. I'm sure it was less my skill and more my dedication to pronunciation. Right now my skills are pretty good. I have tenacity and vocabulary enough to converse many times over.

Things have been quite copacetic here. My family is the kindliest group of people. I can't imagine them arguing. The youngest daughter, Mati, is the cutest little girl I´ve ever met. I gave her some pixy sticks and Pez, and she squealed in rapture.

And no one has called me gringo yet, except today when I went to get some nieves (ice cream), the lady behind the counter did not give me a cone like she did for everyone else, and when I asked, she said she'd give me one for two pesos. Mierda! I paid up anyway. What is money for if not for waffle cones?

I tried out for the school soccer team today, and soon I will try out for basketball. I went to classes today and read Chekhov alongside a large group of indifferent Mexicanos. It was rather amusing. The Russian's wanky, Wildean wit went the way of snotty toilet paper in the classroom.

Mexican money is so much prettier than American currency. It wows me every time I see a new bill. The last one I got even had a window built into it!

Okay that´s all I can type now, I must snag the coattails of the sandman for a ride aboard the sleepy train to dreamtown. Bye bye.