Updated 1/10/2009
We stayed a grand total of 3 nights in Oaxaca, Oaxaca – the capital of the state. Upon arriving, we endured a long, grueling trip through horrible traffic, choking heat, and nonsenical roads deadending into barriers, one-way-the-other-way streets, and unlabled street markets. My bike had begun acting up again, and was stalling repeatedly on the streets of Oaxaca, adding greatly to my frustration and worry about its health. We were looking for the one hostel I managed to find on this series of tubes, but in the end, found a different one on the way. It turned out to be pretty spectacular.
The rooms were amazingly cheap. We stayed the first night in a standard dormitory-style room typical of hostels. It cost the equivalent of about $5 a night per person. Then we remembered we were “rich” americans, so we bumped up to the room with a locked door and key so we could leave our stuff unattended without worry of theft. The peace of mind was worth the $7 a night per person.
And of course the rest of the things I love about hostels was true here as well: they sold beer, had computers to access the internet, and was full of a friendly, mostly-young, international crowd. I think I made more than a few friends, and certainly had a great time.
Oaxaca is a decent-sized town with a very managable old colonial center. We stayed just 3 or so blocks from the heart of the city, a now-very-touristy set of promenades called the Zocalo. The Zocalo had a church, a plethora of restaurants and cafes with outside seating, a giant band shell, street performers, street vendors, and enough christmas lights to make it seem like day nearly all night long.
The town was host to an extremely healthy aforementioned street market economy. Strange breads, cheeses, clothes, alcohol, hand-made items, piñatas, toys, cds, and as my dad said, tons of cheaply manufactured chinsy chinese garbage. Piles of the stuff. Every morning dozens of blocks in the center of the city were filled wall-to-wall by plastic tarps, folding tables, carts, and goods for sale. Every night, in a process that must be witnessed to believe, it was all torn down in a wake of garbage that would leave the crying Native American from that old commercial in a coma or worse.
Among the friends I made was a Mexican from Chiapas named Anthony. He had two black eyes from a fight with his girlfriend’s old boss, and spoke fluent English from a common-law marriage to a Canadian woman. His girlfriend now is an exotic dancer, and when the fight broke out in their last town, they packed up and moved to Oaxaca – into the hostel we were staying at.
My dad had been to Oaxaca before, but Anthony had only just arrived for the first time, so we set out to walk around the town. We walked through the Zocalo and numerous street markets. We walked past incredible old churches. In search of a bar, we walked up and down quiet side streets, and found a completely barren bar and had a drink. We swapped stories about ourselves and I learned a lot about the guy. Around 10pm or so, Anthony got to wondering what date it was, and took a look at his phone. Uh oh! He’d missed a text message from his girlfriend! She was at work at her new job and had forgotten her panties. She wanted him to bring them over, but she’d sent the message 2 and a half hours ago!
He asked if I wanted to come with if he bought the cab, so I said what the hell and we power walked back to the hostel. He grabbed the missing clothing and we caught a cab. Soon there we were, inside a very strange mexican strip club, delivering panties, and witnissing just what Mexicans will put up with at a place like that this far from the border. Sintillated I was not, but once again amazed by the cultural difference I certainly was. We had a beer, and when we didn’t buy another, we were duly ignored. The only “show” was a girl being all but molested (though not against her will) by a throng of 4 mexicans in ways that would get you arrested in probably more states in the US than not. We left before too long and walked home.
Went out later and met up with other hostel people and ended up at two different clubs in Oaxaca, drinking overpriced mexican beer and losing all track of time. As if the visit to the Mexican strip club hadn’t been strange enough, another club showed the similarities in culture, at least between Oaxaca and San Francisco, when the dance floor suddenly became home to a male stripper, who thankfully kept the last bits of his clothing on, but proceeded to give a few lucky Oaxacan ladies free lap dances. Following up that act was a male-to-female transsexual who belted out some Mexican pop music, great to the crowd’s delight. Even as I write this entry, it’s hard to imagine the things I saw that night. I got home around 9am and passed out.
In my version of the morning, which this day was about 1pm, I awoke and showered. My dad and I got breakfast, and I quaffed water and orange juice to try to make the pain go away. We figured out the likely source of my bike’s problem – a spark plug connector that had gone bad when the spark plug miraculously vibrated nearly completely out of the engine after 5000 miles, what a rattle trap!! – and found a Kawasaki dealer in Oaxaca. After waiting for their 4 hour or so siesta to end (we only waited about 30 minutes :), we grabbed a new “universal” connector that did the trick wonderfully.
That night, an American bicyclist staying at the hostel cooked a fantastic vegetarian dinner: Indian food! Free and an extremely welcome change from tacos, we paid him back in beer. I called it an early night thanks to my previous excitement.
Finally, on our last full day, I headed up to Monte Alban with 3 Germans from the Hostel, my father sitting out since he’d been there before and wanted to relax. Monte Alban is a religious site on the top of a mountain outside of Oaxaca where the Mayans leveled the top of a mountain to build their temples. In size alone, it’s an amazing undertaking. We caught a city bus to about a mile and a half from the top of the mountain (though it was still labled Monte Alban, welcome to Mexico!), and the driver told us the fastest way up was on a path through the forrest. He told us we couldn’t get lost since there was only one path. About 52 paths, an awful lot of sweat, and a great hike later, we made it to the site.
The ruins at Monte Alban
The ruins definitely lived up to their name. Weathered pyramids showed little of their former glory, but much of the abilities of their makers. Great views of the surrounding countryside, and Oaxaca. The hike down was easy, and a city bus was just waiting to take us back home. Dad and I then headed to the largest, most impressive church in Oaxaca with Anthony. On a scale that’s hard to fathom, the church was imposing from the outside. Our first attempt to enter had been during a service when they didn’t allow visitors, but peeking in, it was apparant that the inside was far more impressive. So in we went. Far in the back, a tramendous gold altar shined back at us, illuminating the walls and ceiling of the place, every inch of which was covered in extremely detailed, carved and painted wooden sculptures and frescos. Giant religious scenes played out around us in 3 dimensional glory, jumping from the walls. Unforunately, before I could make an entire round, they turned off the lights to try and get visitors out.
That night, the Mexican stripper at the hostel patiently taught me to knit, we went to dinner in one of the massive indoor markets (which are just a bit less crazily set up than their outdoor tarped equivalent) and had delicious chicken mole, a Oaxacan specialty.
Sat around that evening drinking and playing cards, and nearly got an actual early start in the morning (we try so hard! maybe).
