Scorpions and marihuana
From the coast I head out to Mexico’s interior. Same temperature, different scenery. Hours and places unknown to international tourism pass by and I reach my destination.
This city is unlike any other I’ve seen in a while. Colourful houses are built into the walls of the mountainous landscape. A road runs through it, connecting north, east, south and west.
I slalom through the city with its narrow streets, making pitstops at picturesque squares and food stands. I end up with a tank full and thankful.
With a stomach packed with Mexican heavenliness I stroll to the cable cart and arrive on top of a hill overlooking the city.
On route to the viewpoint I come across numerous liquor stores. Shelves are filled with bottles of tequila with marihuana leafs and scorpions floating in them. An interesting alternative to the red liquid I usually sip on during mass on Sunday mornings.
At the viewpoint there are steps to sit on, sun rays to absorb and a group of elderly foreign tourists, impressed by everything, for my passive entertainment. After a while I leave the fluorescent sombreros and thick layers of sunblock behind. The next morning I depart to a nearby city.
I walk through neighbourshoods that are the definition of dodgy and end up on a square that is the supposed city centre. There is nearly no life nor activity. The sun tries its best, but with a maximum effort merely manages to colour the city light grey.
Rapidly I establish that tourism has yet to be established over here. All eyes present are staring in the same direction: mine. I am aware that I look like the poster child for the Aryan race. Therefore I accept that no caps, sunglasses nor fake moustaches are going to save me today.
With a bottle of sparkling water in hand I sit down on a bench in the shade and look around me. A man on his bike with massive speakers on the carrier cycles past, a youngster walks up to shake my hand and a grandmother and granddaughter on a bench nearby wave and giggle. The authenticity of it all makes me fall in love with the place.
As I sit there, reciprocating all the kindness, adding memories to my cerebral gallery, I book a ticket for the next morning, to a city that will serve as my temporary office in the sun. A place for structure and the final stop in Latin America.
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