I left Mexico City two months behind schedule, a series of events had conspired to keep me there for longer than planned, but with everything now taken care of, and my allergies playing up, leaving the safety of a family home and the intoxicating smog and pollution of a decaying mega motropolis was of prime priority.
With me, a backpack carrying a few shirts and shorts, toiletries, and medicine, my cheap Mexican guitar, and a dodgy sleeping bag barely held together by rainbow suspenders.
My grandmother had packed me two 'tortas', (a traditional type of sandwich cross burger), two apples, and given me 500 pesos to help my measly savings that I naively hoped would get me through to Guatemala and the Yucatan. She was slightly worried, but blessed me, and "let God take care of him now".
The departure day was a Wednesday and I arrived just in time to catch the coach out.
A day before leaving and maybe as a warning from god, two scammers tried to get to all my freshly exchanged cash. They had a tip off from the bank teller im sure. I didn't fall, but it was close. I decided then that a money belt would be worn at all times, with a decoy wallet in my backpocket to be sure.
The bus roared to full speed as we hit the highway and rolled out of the thick, infinitely sprawling cityscape and towards Oaxaca (Wah/hah/kah). A hilly landscape unfolded before us, revealling a mostly barren and depressing vista. I hoped this would change as we got further from the city but was dissappointed. Cactuses and the ocassional shrub adorned the bleak brown landscape, while hungry goats would mill around hoping to find some green to mulch on and survive. Flanked the whole trip by mountains dead and wasted, raped of all their natural resources and beauty for a few 'pesos' and maybe some political points, I felt ashamed to be human.
When I reached Oaxaca it was raining. My contact was at 9:30 and it was only 3. I headed for a local bar to drink my fair share of cheap local beer.
I met Yosef at the "Labastida" a local park, after getting enebriated, playing my guitar for a pair of snotty faced 5 year old locals, and waiting at the wrong park. I realized it was the wrong park a minute before we were meant to meet, got some directions and ran to the Labastida.
---
"Murdoch!!"
I sigh with relief.
We walk to his stay nearby while introducing ourselves.
Yosef has been living in Oaxaca for a year and a half as an English teacher, he has no money to get back to the states and he is overstaying his Visa, making him an American illegal in Mexico. We laugh at the irony of his situation.
As we enter the door to his place, the first thing he asks is if i'd like to get high and I smile.
Rolling a spliff with his housemate Lobo (the wolf), a Mexican writer who left the city to get some focus; we are soon discussing Huxley and Orwell, I say I found Huxley more impacting than Orwell, and Lobo tells me that Huxley would have liked that, since he was a big fan of Orwell.
"Orwell was making a comment on Communism" states Lobo.
I say that he was making a comment on society as a whole and he agrees.
Yosef and I go for some cheap food around the corner, then to a nightclub which is full. I left my ID behind but it turns out I need it, (in Mexico?) so we head to a dirty club across the road where I pretend not to speak spanish properly and get in without a problem. I soon learn that American tourists are the worst. The bar is crowded and steamy, local men are making moves to dance with the tourist girls who oblige if only for a laugh, I'm bored and tired.
We go back to Yosefs to crash after a few more pipes.
Mosquitoes feast on my hand through the night.
