Dreddlock Holiday

MUD SUCKED HUNGRILY at my feet, squelching between my toes as I tiptoed through the shallow, brackish water towards the sandbank. A muffled roar sounded from over its crest, a dull rumble as the impact of thousands of tonnes of water transferred its kinetic energy through billions of pieces of silica. The early afternoon sun was burning hot across my shoulders as I emerged from the trees; three young boys mended a weighted net, preparing to fish the shallows. A blistered, peeling, pale blue fishing boat sat atop the rise. Mazunte's beauty was revealed all at once; her beach curled away to my left, a half-mile to the far headland. Small islets of rock broke the surface of the ocean around this headland, the water churning white as the waves rolled over and around them; larger islands further distant burned bright white in the sunlight they were so encrusted with the white guano of the sea birds that wheeled and screeched around them. I walked a little further, the grin cracking my face; few places inspire love at first sight quite like Mazunte. To my right the beach narrowed around a small headland; beyond it was the main beach surrounded by small cafés and bars, small houses dotting the cliffs and hills above. I sat in the sand and watched a couple of Méxicano youths skim-boarding, silhouetted in the glare of dappled light dancing on water. With my eyes closed for a moment, I enjoyed the rumble, the boom of sea bullying land, the serpentine hiss as water retreated and was sucked away from between particles of sand.

"Señor...señor..." I opened my eyes. A small boy of five or six was regarding me, all tousled chestnut hair and chocolate eyes. I peered over the lip of the bucket he was carrying: it was filled with small plastic boxes. "¿Que tienes, chiquito?" I asked him. "Tacos de pescado" he smiled shyly. The boy's mother had caught him up by now, she walking more slowly in the heat; crouching beside me, she removed a large basket from atop the sarong wrapped around her head. As she prepared my four tuna tacos for the princely sum of two dollars, we chatted and I complimented her on her guapo young son. She beamed her thanks. The tacos were stuffed with guacamole and chilli, and she bid me a good afternoon as she handed them over, packed the basket and headed away. I waved and told her I'd see her tomorrow. And the day after. I'd no sooner finished my tacos, fingers painted green with guacamole, when my next visitor arrived. The old man laboured down the beach, immaculate in a smart pair of trousers and pressed white shirt, a white Panama hat casting a strong shadow over his sun-beaten face. He pushed a small wooden wheelbarrow before him. It contained a small urn. He nodded a greeting as he got closer. "¿Es helado, señor?" A beatific smile creased his face as he proudly presented me with two small samples of his ice-cream. "Si." This was a man confident of his merchandise. He had every right to be, it was incredible. Learning Spanish has not always been easy, but it's well worth the effort to be able to have a chat with a friendly local. Though he spoke no English, I was able to find out that Alvaro had given up a job that he wasn't happy in, and had been making the ice-cream in his house for fifteen years. He's 70. His working day starts at 4am, and he has fresh helado ready to go by ten o'clock. Laughing, he told me that not even his wife gets up so early. I'd come to try a few flavours over the next few weeks, but the first one I tried was the best. Walnut. Creamy. Delicious. Alvaro proudly informed me that he sells out every day, and I'm not at all surprised.

Alvaro left for another waving customer. My hands sticky with ice-cream, I got to my feet and sauntered down to the water, waiting for the foaming waves to recede. I waded in, the cool water soothing my hot skin. Duck-diving, I swam through the green silence for a few moments before sufacing to float on my back, arms outstretched and facing the sun high above the cliffs. I had little more than a month of the trip left, and I already knew that I was going to spend the majority of that time here.

Mazunte is a tiny Pacific coastal town an hour or so south of Puerto Escondido by local bus. From the highway stop of Punto Angel, it's a further fifteen minutes by collectivo along a palm-fringed, potholed road. I've not visited a more relaxed place in the Americas. There are no police stationed here, and they visit the town infrequently; the locals seem to police themselves. As a result, the place exudes a very relaxed vibe, obvious when you see the people enjoying a joint or a pipe with their lunch. I would pass many a peaceful afternoon enjoying the view across the bay while building myself a spliff to accompany a fresh Americano.

Alex from Colima had recommended a new hostel near the ocean. La Isla was run by two couples: two Argentino lads and their German and Russian girlfriends. Pablo ran the kitchen, his girlfriend Kathy the bar with Alicia while Lissi did the DIY and played with the three dogs which lived in the hostel. There was a fourth dog, a puppy I renamed Hendrix after he ate half a bag of my grass and spent the next eight hours stretched out asleep beneath a hammock. I love dogs, and have met few who haven't returned my affection. I think they recognised a fellow simple being? The foursome running the hostel all left Playa Del Carmen after a few years of working over in Quintana Roo state. Kathy, being a dive instructor like myself, misses the place and the hustle and bustle. But life in Mazunte is more relaxing, and far more Méxican, than being over in Playa. After a holiday in the town, they'd decided to return to build a hostel and start a new life here. They are easy company, and are going to do well, I am certain of that.

There are probably more dreddlocked white people here than anywhere else in México, and you all know my opinion on those Plastic Rasta types. But I'll take these over gangs of pissed-up Aussie surfkids. Besides, the majority keep themselves to themselves; bar one rude individual who would wander into the cafés and approach your table while you were eating. "Bracelet?" she asked me simply one afternoon, her chunk of woven bracelet-clad bamboo shoved in my face, between my open mouth and my food-laden fork. I briefly studied her manky single lock of matted hair, tufts of black, protruding armpit-hair and filthy fingernails before holding up a piece of my lunch and indignantly answering "Falafel?" She huffed and walked away without a word. Pig-ignorant. There was a cake-selling crusty on the beach every morning who I warmed to, though; his infectious grin indicated a happiness at being alive in this place. Besides, he wasn't pushy, and only had one small, manky dreddlock: the rest of his head was shaved.

Alex had mentioned that he had a holiday coming up as I'd left Colima; said he might come down to Mazunte for a few days. So I was pleased when he emailed and said that he was on his way. He arrived dusty and worn-out after 1500km and two days astride his BMW bike. I wasn't surprised he was mentally fatigued, as those roads from Oaxaca, with their speedbumps, patches of gravel, broken tarmac and packs of deranged dogs in the tiny villages lining the route must have been testing. I was pleased and relieved when he finally turned up. And even more pleased and relieved when he revealed that he'd brought Chinese Japanese with him. Unfortunately he couldn't fit Julieta and Teresa on the bike, but we made do. For the next few days life repeated the pattern that I'd happily sunk into while living in Colima. Except that we had the beach on our doorstep.

Mazunte is an important point on the map for anyone interested in yoga and holistics. There's an abundance of health food shops, bakeries and massage centres. So along with the yogis and bean-eaters, there are bound to be a few New Age oddballs knocking around. I certainly came across a few. We took a walk up the hill to Punta Cometa one afternoon. This headland to the north of the town is the best point from which to watch the sun end its shift. A small crowd was ranged across the clifftop watching the crimson ball in its final moments. The peace was interrupted by a fat, bald and shirtless westerner with a wispy, manicured beard, who took to banging a small drum with monotonous regularity. Alex raised his eyebrows at me, and I suggested we could maybe push him off the cliff? The Frenchman was in agreement, especially when Buddha began blowing into a conch shell at the sun's very last moments. If you want to add a bit of atmosphere or drama to such a moment that's fair enough, but listen to it on your iPod and leave everyone else to enjoy a contemplative moment in peace? I'd liked to have shoved the conch where the sun doesn't shine...he'd have been obliged to eat plenty of beans before getting a note of it after that.

The night previously at our hostel a group had celebrated a birthday. A tall, bespectacled American man had serenaded them on acoustic guitar. While the guy was pretty good, he'd been playing louder and louder, turning to everyone else's table in wide-eyed glee and screaming out his songs in a "Hey...look at me...aren't I wacky and crazy?" kind of way. No, mate...but you're really fucking annoying. We'd been having a pleasant chat until he'd turned up. He was like a creepy, manic Jack Johnson. He arrived on the cliff now, and made his way around the groups offering shoulder massages. But not the girls...no, it was the men he wanted to get his hands on. This strange man rocking up and offering to rub their boyfriend's bodies appeared to perturb one or two, and distrusting glances were thrown his way as he tried with the next couple. Alex voiced my thoughts. "Let's leave before he gets to us."

On the way back to wooded hill above the town, there is a set of natural steps down to the rocky foot of the headland. In one tiny corner here is a natural jacuzzi: a basin pool worn into the stone through centuries of erosion. The waves surge through a tiny gap between two expanses of rocky wall, overflowing violently into this pool with a burbling roar of white foaming water. I've never seen anything quite like it. It's like being in a huge natural washing machine. If visited at midday, there is a small suntrap in which to dry off and relax. It's a serene spot, and barely visited.

All too soon, the Frenchman's visit came to an end. Once more, I didn't feel too blue at his departure; I have a feeling I'll be seeing him again within the next year. It's funny how you can meet someone while travelling and click with them immediately. I felt like we'd known each other far longer than five weeks; that we'd be friends for life. He's OK, for a pinche Francés. As he revved the bike and departed in a cloud of dust, he told me that Colima would be waiting, and to give him some notice before I came back so that he could have a room ready. I'll be taking him up on that.

With Alex gone, I decided that I'd have a change of scene. Time was running out, and I wanted to see a few more beautiful Oaxacan beaches before my departure to wintry London. And just down the road from Mazunte was a legendary spot that I just had to hit. I packed my bags and made ready for a morning departure.

Lost Amongst Men Without Hats

PUERTO ESCONDIDO TRANSLATES as Hidden Port in Spanish. And to be perfectly honest, if it had remained hidden then I wouldn't have missed out on much. It's a sizeable seaside town populated by drunken Australian surfers barely-tolerated by moody locals. But the rowdy behaviour of the former probably accounts for the attitude of the latter. I'd been forewarned by several people about this, so I wasn't completely taken aback on arrival. The Aussies, like the Israelis, generally travel in packs and congregate in the same locations. This isn't all bad, as you know which places to avoid; they don't stray far from their hostels, unless it's too buy more booze. In no way am I knocking all Australians here. I've met some pretty cool ones on this trip, but none of them were travelling with fifteen mates in tow.

The town itself surrounds a gaudy high street which runs parallel to the main beach; the usual bright lights, noisy neon-lit bars and crappy souvenir shops. It is within the convenience stores on the main drag that you'll receive the rudest service in México. I shopped in one regularly the first two days in town, and was unfailingly polite. The young lad working there was chatty, but his mother was a different kettle of fish; a sour face like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle. She'd flatly ignore me and my daily greetings, which was bad enough, but the last straw came when she put my change on the counter, ignoring my outstretched hand. Now I'd observed the inebriated antipodeans staggering around in her store at all hours of the day, but felt offended to be tarred with that particular brush. I left the premises under a dark cloud, vowing not to give her my custom any longer; I'd shop elsewhere. But then I decided to go back in the next day and, when she asked me for twenty pesos without taking her eyes off the TV behind me, I just slapped the coins loudly on the wooden counter, inches from her palm. Manners cost nothing, and treat other people as you expect to be treated in return?

So it seems that tourists are barely tolerated here, some locals appearing to resent the fact that they rely on us for their livelihood. Sean and Susy, the surfers I'd spent some time with in El Salvador, had warned me about the aggressive atmosphere in the bars and clubs of Escondido. And they weren't wrong. You'd be quite foolish to try chatting up a pretty Méxicana in this town: you'd probably get your head kicked in. I've not met locals so hostile since the exchanges of pleasantries San Juan Del Sur in Nicaragua. In the low season things seem to simmer on a reduced heat, but I wouldn't like to be here for the high season or the dreaded Spring Break when American youth descends on the bay. Puerto Sangre, I'd imagine?

But head ten minutes north out of town, via the coastline walkway which hugs the cliffs, and you come to the beautiful bay of Playa Carazalillo. This shallow strip of beach is barely a hundred metres long and ten metres deep, and is an oasis of calm. No unwelcome hassle from hawkers here: the ones who ply their wares are friendly, and remember if you've said No when they return in the other direction. Besides, the food they're selling usually means that you say Yes. When I wasn't buying from the beach vendors I ate regularly at a tiny, ramshackle café at the bottom of the 176 steps from the street above. The fish tacos here were delicious, crispy tortillas...hot, stuffed with chunks of fresh avocado; I sometimes ate them twice a day, they were so good. Floating on your back in the cool sea, facing the cliffs and contemplating that first afternoon beer, is a simple pleasure not to be underestimated. It was easy to while away a few days here. The sunset looks best from the steps, and after it had disappeared I'd have a quick passing chat with the artisano selling bracelets and the like at the top. His name was Fabio. He was 40-plus, and Méxicano...not the usual crusty Israeli or Argentino you see in that line of business. He'd given me his sales patter the first time I'd passed. "Yeah, I've been here a few yearss...I have an American girlfriend, she looks after me...it's not an easy life...some days I have a few pennies in my pocket, some days I don't...you know...I just gotta keep going, thanks to God...so you're from England? God Bless England, man...yeah..." The wistful look out to sea which accompanied this pitch, and his sun-weathered, gap-toothed smile, may have worked on young surfer babes, but I saw through it. And he knew that, and grinned wider still. A nice guy, Fabio...but I'm not buying a bracelet.

They say that the world is a small place. It is. I met a lad from Adelaide who was bemoaning the fact that the town, especially our hostel, was crawling with Australians. I told him I imagined it would be like myself arriving on the Costa Del Sol in Spain. Horrific. We had a quick chat, as my sister has lived in his hometown a number of years. He was from the same neighbourhood, and mentioned that he was a teacher. I jokingly said that I bet he'd tell me next that he taught at my nephew and niece's school? It turned out that he had, and knows them both well. Funny.

The Aussie asked me about the diving in Escondido, and I told him to give it a wide berth. I'd spent a morning out in a fish-stinking boat a few days before, diving two of the worst dive sites it has been my misfortune to visit. I won't waste breath, ink or web space on the first. The second had been a pile of rocks around the corner from the main beach, with very limited visibility and nothing of note to see. I was actually pleased when the dive guide started getting cold, as it was an excuse to end the dive. The owner had told me that a couple of days previously she'd seen mantas and a whale. Where? On a TV documentary? Talk about being led up the garden path; the guide said he'd seen one whale, in the distance, in a year of diving here. Now you can't guarantee anything in diving. When people ask if they'll see sharks or the like I'll always say that it's like planning a trip to LA and wondering if you'll see Brad and Angelina? Well...you might. But, on the other hand, you might not. But I don't like being bullshitted. And word of mouth can work both ways as far as recommendations go. So Puerto Dive Center won't be getting any more of my hard-earned. And I won't be sending any travellers their way, as I do with the Argentino guide, Nico, who showed me the cenotes in Tulum with five amazing dives.

Considering that I'd imagined getting work here, I had to laugh after these two dives. I could hardly bring myself to log them, they were that bad. It's a measure of their bleak dreadfulness that my first thoughts as we headed for the bottom was that I would have to wash and dry my equipment for this shit? Not the indicator of an enjoyable dive. Back at the shop, after the owner enquired after how my day had been, I'd told her that the visibilty was terrible, the guide suffered from the cold, we cut the second dive short and that'd we'd seen nothing much in the way of wildlife. Her response? A beaming "Perfect!" Not really, dear. But never mind...you have my money.

So after the gear had dried (mercifully quickly), I was packing up again. I was heading for a quieter spot that had long been marked on my Mexican map: the beachside town of Mazunte.

Song Of The Siren

IT WAS ALMOST impossible, but leave I did. Eventually. I had almost left a few weeks before; Julian, the Australian fellow with whom I'd driven to Guadalajara, had passed through Colima in his truck. He was heading for the Michoacán coast. But he'd turned up a day earlier than expected and wanted to leave the next, as he was on a tight schedule; I wasn’t prepared to rush off. So I'd stayed. Maybe I'd miss out on some amazing experiences, but you make these decisions and you stick by them. The time came when I realised I'd have to get moving, though. Being at the beach in Michoacán had amplified the seductive whisper of the ocean: I wanted to get down to the Oaxaca coastline and dive. On the way I'd catch up with my Austrian friend Karina in Guanajuato, have a brief sojourn in México DF and see Oaxaca city.

I'd packed the night before, and was showered and ready to go by midmorning. Niki had refused to say Goodbye the night before, saying that I was going nowhere. He came back from work, saw me sat in the garden and laughed before he noticed the two packed bags stacked outside my room. He groaned, I grinned. "You'll have to roll your own joints now, amigo." Alex kindly offered me a lift to the terminal, and Niki and Pajarito came along. I usually hate farewells. It upsets me to leave people I've really connected with. But my heart was less heavy at the fact that I know I'll be back to Colima one day. I’ll visit Niki in Munich. I could look up Rudi & Bruno there, the two gay guys I spent Xmas 2008 snorkelling in Thailand with...they live in the same city. I'm sure they'd be delighted to watch Niki eat an ice-lolly? They’d likely even pay for it.

The boys departed, tooting the horn and shouting abuse out of the window of the truck. As us Europeans tend to do. I entered the terminal laughing to myself, to the bemusement of some of the locals; I don’t suppose many of them are dropped at the terminal by friends and family, who then depart with shouts of “I think you are a fat bastard!” from the car window, in French-accented English? Charming. No decorum, the French. Savages, one and all. It wasn't long before I was on a bus headed for Guadalajara. I thought of the friends I’d made in Colima and smiled to myself. I’d miss them, and was glad I’d turned up in the town at random. It amused me that I'd arrived thinking I'd be out of there in a few days, and had spent a full month in their easy company. Colima feels right to me, and friends back home, when I'd expressed doubts about staying in one place so long, when there were so many more places to see, had told me to stay if it felt right. It did. But I was also slightly relieved to be back on the road and heading for the unknown.

I daydreamed until we reached the city, delighting in the scenery. There was a half hour to kill before my connection to Guanajuato. I wandered the terminal and hung around near my departure gate. A rotund man of around 50 years of age struck up a conversation, asking if I was American? Nope. We got chatting. He was México-born, but brought up in the States; back for a holiday. His parents still lived here, and he was going to Puerto Vallarta, where he had a timeshare. I chuckled and told him I'd been there, but it was far too Americanised for me...I was here to see México. He laughed too, and said he understood completely, but that it was safe and secure, and that he just wanted a beach to relax on. Fair enough.

Like most Americans, or in this case Améxican, he was shocked when he'd asked the whereabouts of my friends, only to be told I was travelling alone. He said México was dangerous and that I should take care; his jaw hit the floor when I said I'd ventured through Honduras and spent a month in El Salvador. "Are you crazy?" he asked. “Only on Tuesdays.” People don't seem to realise how simple independent travel really is. The big step is doing it the first time and, yes, it can be daunting. But once done, you can never go back. Ever. He was fascinated by my tales from Colombia, but said he was surprised that they had tourism there. If he hadn't been so old already, he told me, I might have inspired him to give it a try. But he said that he'd stick to a Margarita and a steak on the beach. I laughed, shook his hand and told him my Guanajuato bus was pulling into the terminal. "Guanajuato?" he said, doubtfully "Be careful up there, my friend." I smiled and told him that there'd be more gringos than locals in that place, and so I wouldn't be there long. He waved with a grin and a shake of his head as I climbed into the bus.

I arrived at my destination in the early evening. After the warmth of Colima, where a degree drop in temperature one evening had prompted Alex to say it was a little fresh, and Niki had replied, deadpan, that he might even have to go and put a tee-shirt on, Guanajuato was a shock. I could see my breath in the air, for pity's sake? Wouldn't be hanging around here long, I thought. If I wanted to be cold, I'd be back in bloody England.

A beautiful town on an impressively rugged seat of arid rock, Guanajuato nestles in a tight, winding valley five hours North of the capital. Sitting on one side of the crevice and looking down into the centre of gaily-coloured buildings, the place is surprisingly quiet. No drone of traffic assails the ears. This is the beauty of the place, due to the genius of its design: beneath this UNESCO city snakes a network of tunnels where the traffic passes, unheard, below the feet. Cars, buses and trucks are infrequently seen when walking about town. It's incredibly peaceful. Myself and Karina spent an hour on the hillside enjoying the peace and picking out our favourite-coloured buildings. The vista plays tricks with your eyes, making it difficult to have a sense of perspective or depth-of-field: the view can look completely flat at times, it's quite bizarre.

Two days was enough here, and the three of us headed back to the capital. Aline was due to leave for Nicaragua, and I was heading for Oaxaca. It felt good to get back to DF, I'd missed the beating heart of México: its dirt, holes in the pavements, graffiti, traffic fumes and excitement. A couple of nights out with some familiar faces, and I was ready to make a move. I got a reminder never to be complacent when Aline was robbed mid-morning at the computer fair downtown. She'd needed a battery for her laptop, and had heard that they could be bought cheaply there. Personally I'd have taken the serial number of the required battery rather than carry a computer to a bustling marketplace. She'd been handing it to a stall-owner to check when a thief ran by and knocked her over, snatching the laptop and disappearing rapidly into the crowd. It happened so quickly that she didn't have time to be frightened, and thankfully she was downright annoyed rather than traumatised by the experience. Tough girl. It was made all the worse by the fact that she'd had a Macbook stolen from a locker at the hostel we'd all been using barely a week before. Just bad luck. And bad people.

There were plenty of parties upcoming in DF, but I knew that if I didn't make a move then I'd be there another fortnight; it's a great city that you really need to spend some time in if you're ever out this way. So I was on my way by lunchtime, and arrived in the old colonial city of Oaxaca late that evening.

I love a pretty colonial town as much as the next traveller. But I've been away a year and have sampled the delights of Antigua (Guatemala), Quito (Ecuador), Suchitoto (El Salvador) and the Casco Viejo district of Panama City. So I'm kind of colonial citied-out. Jaded. Oaxaca, had it been visited earlier, may have blown me away. I could hardly be bothered to take photographs, which is very unlike me. Of course, it's a beautifully-kept place...but there's just far too many gringos for my liking. I like a town where I can sit in a faded old square, sip a coffee from an independant shop, read my book in peace and have a brief chat with a few locals. Not one where I'm being pestered to buy a hammock every five minutes. In the central plaza of Oaxaca I sat and had one coffee, a shit one from an "Italian" chain at that, and counted nineteen vendors or beggars constantly breaking my peace and quiet. It's beyond belief. I'd been promised great vegetarian food in the town, but I failed to find it.

And so, walking around town, I was overwhelmed by something building up inside of me, akin to a panic attack. But it wasn't a panic attack at all, it was more that I just couldn’t be arsed, and was getting the urge to flee. It was late afternoon and I realised that, if I wanted to see the ruins of Monte Alban high above the town, I would have to move fast if I wasn’t to be trapped here for another day. I located a shuttle company and took the last bus uphill. Alone with the driver, I had a pleasant chat on the way up; his family and job, my family and travels; and, of course, the obligatory exchanges about English football, El Chicharito and (my hatred of) Manchester United. Diego liked his job, and it was easy. It also paid fairly, and allowed him to bring up his daughters comfortably. We discussed the number of westerners in the town, and he told me that there are 5000 permanent ex-pats living there. I told him that this was a good enough reason for me to want to spend my time elsewhere, as I came to the country to learn Spanish and get a feel for México: the real México, not some sanitised gringo version. “You must leave tonight” he cackled.

Monte Alban's ruins are not the most spectacular you'll see in the Americas, not by a long way; but the setting is tranquil and it's a nice escape from the town. Indeed, it is so quiet atop this hill that sounds from the valley can carry: voices and music drift on the wind from below. Being so still, it's a good place to sit and take it easy for an hour or two. The makeshift scaffolding around one of the central pyramids somewhat marred the view. And a laughing local I spoke to told me that it had been left that way for the last few years; the few restoration workers I saw laughing and chatting in the shade were a good indication of the current workrate. Mañana, mañana.

I returned to town, sat in the square with a final constantly-interrupted coffee, and then booked a shuttle for the following morning on my return to the hostel. Ordinarily I would have been happy enough on the bus but, with the winding, mountainous road to Puerto Escondido taking 11 hours, a mere 6 by minibus seemed a better bet. A good many people make this journey overnight, but I had a feeling that the scenery was going to be worth seeing, so set off midmorning.

I wasn't disappointed. The dusty outskirts of Oaxaca gave way to green hills as we climbed in altitude. The roads were as bad as expected; potholes and hardly-visible speed humps slowed us, and I was hardly surprised that the bus took twice as long. Temperatures dropped as we sped ever higher, and each bend revealed another incredible, never-ending view of mountains and valleys. The delicious, fresh scent of pine drifted in through the open windows. Drives like this make me happy, and it was a pity that darkness would fall before I could see the ocean.

We stopped in a village that time forgot, the driver telling us that we had twenty minutes to eat. Nothing looked appealing, and I made do with a milkshake and a packet of peanuts. It wouldn't be the first time. I was amused to see a few locals sat around watching a repeat of a recent English football game featuring Everton, my boyhood team, and Stoke City. It was a little bizarre to be sat in a run-down café in a no-horse town in southwest México and catch the back-end of a match from home. Less of a surprise that Everton were losing.

One of the women from our bus was eyeing me. When I looked over she informed me that my headphones had been a little loud on the first leg. I laughed and said that she should have let me know and I would have gladly turned it down? As we climbed back into the van, she took this as the starting point of a very, very long conversation: she talked my bloody ears off. She was around my age but twice my size, and told me she was single and worked in a hotel in Huatulco, a few hours from Escondido. And that I should visit. She insisted on giving me her number, and seemed unhappy that I didn't have a phone. She grilled me for the next hour, the high point of which being her question on what an atheist temples looked like? After a while my neck was aching from constantly looking to my extreme left, hoping me being wrapped up in the view would prevent further conversation. Or maybe I should have just gently put her off by informing her that I make it a rule never to date girls with arms hairier than my own? Would have been rude. But effective.

We were less than two hours away when we were treated to the very strange sight of a man in a tee-shirt running along the mountain road carrying a flaming Olympic-style torch, with a support vehicle of sorts trailing him...though this one had a huge, candle-ringed shrine to the Virgen De Guadelupe atop it in a glass case. It turns out that this festival is celebrated every year, with teams from every town and village church competing to win the race to the sea with the eternal flame. They'll run from one point to the next before passing on the torch to the next runner, accompanied by a raucous din of blaring music and roared encouragement from the vehicle's PA system. Faster, you bastards. As an atheist since primary school I'm constantly flabbergasted, and thoroughly entertained, by the lengths the followers of the Catholic faith will go to in proving their devotion. Though it has to be said that this event looks far less painful than the self-flagellating procession you can witness in the Philippines around Easter, the devotees walking the streets to the harbour, whipping their own backs raw and bloody with chains before throwing themselves into the sea. Barmy.

It was with some degree of relief that we crept into the barrios of Puerto Escondido. The religious lunatics had thinned out to a trickle, and the chatty Méxicana seemed to have run out of steam. She asked for my number, and I scribbled down some numerals. She won’t be getting a date, but she’ll certainly know the exact time in London.

I was shattered, and rubbed my eyes. A hostel bed was going to be welcome, and I was looking forward to getting straight into the sea the following morning. Shelter found and secured, my head hit the pillow and I was away with the fairies.

Home From Home

I ADMIT THAT I felt the twinge of doubt within half an hour of arriving in Colima. We'd waited outside the El Litchi hostel for a full ten minutes before a shuffling old Chileno, a guest, opened the door to let us in through the iron gate. There were no signs outside; no reception area; no information at hand; no staff. Was this really a hostel? I left my bags beside a table and chairs at the far end of the enclosed garden space. The Chileño suggested we come back later when Alex, the owner, was around.

A walk into the town was mooted. Heading out of the olive-green building's entrance, dwarfed by a huge rubber tree, we turned right downhill. Passing few people as we approached the main plaza, I began wondering if I'd made an error in coming here: the place was dead. I was already checking my mental map of México to decide where to head for next. Two nights and I'd be out of here. After all, despite ringing the area on my map, it hadn't been anywhere near the top of my list of places to visit. But it had only been a few hours out of Guadalajara, so it wouldn't be a long trek back.

But the place was pretty enough. There are two central plazas with well-kept gardens, hemmed in by the usual arrangement of pastel cathedral on one side and arched colonial grandeur on the remaining three. The high street is barely four hundred metres long; starting suddenly at the far corner of the main plaza and running by the town's only department store before ending abruptly at the parque central, in front of the post office building. It's a decidedly low-rise town, and a solitary concrete monstrosity blots the skyline. Martín pointed beyond town to where the volcano stood. If we could have seen it through the afternoon haze, that is? These empty streets and invisible geological wonder were certainly making me wonder what I was doing here.

Martín took me to meet his Mum at the family's fruit shop, and after a brief chat we headed back towards the hostel. Traversing the deserted main street, he explained that his town was always like this on a Sunday, as people generally stayed home with their families. This explained a lot. In fact England's towns were once like this on the day of rest, too...before the odd department store and supermarket started a trickle of Sunday commerce which would become a flood of shopping madness. Now a Sunday is no different to a Saturday in my home country. It seems a shame we've lost that peace and (relative) quiet. Before we took the gentle hill to El Litchi we came across an elderly couple in the street, sat on small stools in front of a red-and-white-checked tableclothed stall. On it were two large earthenware jars bound with bandage at their spouts. The leathery old man tipped his white hat and stood as we approached, bidding us Buenas tardes. He poured a drink, red in colour, into a small cup. Martín explained that Tuba is made from the sap of the stem between tree and fruit of the coconut tree. In this case, berries had been added to flavour it. The gentleman asked me if I'd like peanuts? Sure, I smiled, but was open-mouthed when he dumped a handful of said peanuts into the drink. I'm used to having a few peanuts with a cold beer, but I'd usually consume them separately? The Méxicanos grinned at me and nodded their encouragement. It was surprisingly good. I grinned back and assured the old man that he would see me again.

Arriving back at the hostel I met Lucy, a permanent resident, who taught at the local college. She'd been in Colima a while, having left North Carolina behind in search of a different life. I got a quick tour of the place from her, and she explained that the place was in its infancy. Having been used to a certain amount of organisation...receptionists, orientation and maps of places on arrival in most hostels...disorganisation was all new to me. But it wouldn't kill me.

Alex, the Montpellier-born Frenchman who ran the place, turned up. We smiled and shook hands. The product of a French mother and a North African father, he'd grown up on the Mediterranean and was understandably laidback. This likely explains why the hostel is the way it is? Mañana, mañana. He'd travelled México extensively over the years, and had lived in Monterrey for a while. But having met a woman in Colima, he'd decided to move there. They'd since split up, but amicably share custody of their cute and precocious daughter Naima. She's 6, a robust bundle of chubby cheeks and a mass of curly hair; already speaking French as well as her native Spanish, and rapidly picking up words and phrases in English. Niki, a German lad of 22 who was staying there on a work placement, was also teaching her words in his native tongue. But life is too short to learn German, even for a little girl. I took to calling her pajarito. Un pajaro is a bird and, in Spanish, dropping the -o and adding -ito (or -ita if the noun is feminine) makes it little bird or birdy. She kept asking Alex why I would call her this, and he explained that it was a nickname. After a while she took to calling me pajarote; the -ote ending denoting something big. So I was big bird. Naima thought that this would stop me calling her pajarito, and questioned her Dad as to why being called big bird hadn't put me off? "I think he likes it" he told her. I did.

Myself and the Frenchman became easy friends. We share a similar outlook on life, have both travelled extensively and have similar tastes in music. Although Alex hates the 80s, a period in which he says music died. Full of shit on that one, I keep telling him. But it's nice when you can hang out with someone with a passion for good music, even if they did have their fingers in their daft French ears for a decade. And music wasn't all we talked about; he's one of those rare people you can have a rambling discussion with on just about anything. Except cooking, of course...what do the French know about that?

We decided that we'd visit the volcano's best viewpoint two days after I got to Colima. It wasn't visible from the centre of town that morning, and I was a little dubious and asked if we shouldn't wait for a clearer morning? Alex said it should be fine, and we set off with Niki in tow. We stopped for lunch on the way, in a tiny village at the volcano's foot. Being sick to the back-teeth of tortillas by this time, the food was uninspiring to me. I went to play with a wolf-like dog rolling around in the dust while my companions ate. After having its belly stroked, it was eagerly licking my hands and forearms. It was at this point that I noted its lower fur was matted with a bright greenish-yellow gunk, discharged from its penis. Obviously I recoiled in horror, gagging. As our table was on the way to the bathroom, I thought it only polite of me to recount the tale and point out the dog's problem while Alex and Niki tried to enjoy their pea-coloured soup...without gagging. Seeing as the volcano was still invisible when we got to the viewpoint, yellow pus coming out of a dog's cock seemed destined to be the cultural highlight of my afternoon, unfortunately. You can't have it all, can you?

Alex asked us that evening had we ever played Chinese Checkers? We hadn't, so he taught us this relatively simple but fascinating board game. It's very addicitive, and we played it for hours on the first night. And the next. And the following night. The set we were using was only cheap and badly made in China. So I told Alex I'd look for a nice hand-made set in Hong Kong on my next Asia trip, should there be one. We were both horrified when Google revealed that the game was, in fact, an 1800s American invention; refined and the board reshaped by the Germans. Our mental images of ancient Mandarins sat around smoking opium and stroking their beards soon evaporated. Shame.

We were introduced to Alex's girlfriend Teresa one evening. Very beautiful though pale for a Méxicana, she reminded me a little of Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. Lucky Alex. She has a long pair of legs that could make a grown man cry. But Alex has no need to cry, because he is allowed to touch them. Now, Tere likes a smoke, as does her diminutive and sultry best friend Julieta, who came round to visit with her one night. Julieta is a morena Pocket Rocket if ever I saw one: small but perfectly formed. And a lovely girl, with the cheekiest smile I've ever seen. She rolled nearly as many joints as me, too...which was quite impressive. Very cool chicas, the pair of them. Alex brought out the smoky, amber mezcal (far superioir to tequila) which he sources from a local brewer: the locals getting the best stuff from the rear door of the factory, sold in metal jerrycans. So these early evenings ended in a cloud of sweet smoke and a warm fug of mezcal. And hours of Chinese Japanese, as Teresa inadverently re-christened it one evening, to much good-natured laughter.

I was having a pleasant time with the gang. The two days I'd initially estimated turned into a week. I was in a dorm, but alone, so effectively had a private room. And Alex's rates are very good. The atmosphere in Colima was pleasant; it's the kind of place where the locals don't see too many tourists, so you get the occasional stare (and the occasional "Go back to your own country" Lucy told me), and people leave you be...although they are more than happy to chat if you strike up a conversation. I enjoyed wandering the streets at random, edging deeper into the various barrios with their pavements lined with orange and lemon trees. There was an excellent seafood café nearby, where I regularly ate platefuls of shrimp for less than $5, as the puzzled waitresses continually asked me why I was in Colima. A routine is sometimes nice when on the road, and a regular coffeeshop is alwas good; mine being full of mosquitoes, the happy abuelita running it always gave me one of those electric tennis-racket devices to kill the ones bound to annoy me as I walked in each midmorning. Eight blocks away was a basic open-air gym and basketball court. After a couple of visits here I befriended a few locals who invited me to play football with them. It felt like I really was settling into life in Colima. Méxicanos to hang out and play football with, a Frenchman and a couple of witty and amsuing lady potheads to take it easy with, and an ever-increasing circle of mates to go out partying with at salsa club 1800? You could certainly say that I was enjoying myself. I was gradually meeting Alex's inner circle, too. I judge a man on the quality of his friends, I told him...and his are a fine bunch.

That weekend, Alex was at a loose end. His ex-girlfriend had Naima, and his job teaching French at the University didn't involve weekends; Tere was working. So did we fancy going to a very nice beach in nearby Michoacán State? They were already on my map so yes, I certainly did. Alex, Niki, Lucy and myself packed the truck with a tent, beers, cigarette papers and water. We hit the road. There are so many army and police checkpoints in this country that travelling with grass can be a little risky. I know people that do it, but respect the fact that Alex will not: he has a lot to lose should he be caught. As we sped through the lush green valleys of Colima towards the coast, he told me he knew a fellow we could try in a village a few miles beyond where we'd be staying.

We arrived late afternoon and cruised through the ghost-town that was now Maruata. The fact it was off-season, and that a hurricane had ripped through here barely two months previously, meant that hardly anyone was visible on the streets. It made Colima on a Sunday look hectic. The rough wooden-walled, palm-roofed shacks which had survived the winds were still boarded-up. No surfers in sight. Nothing. A local told us that there were no dealers around at the moment. So we took another road to the man that Alex knew. A shallow river meant that we'd have to leave Niki and Lucy in the car and make our way on foot. As we paddled across, the Frenchman briefed me.

"I don't like this guy...you'll have to deal with him" he told me.
"Oh?" I queried.
"Last time I came he told me to go fuck myself."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him to go fuck himself..."
"And then...?"
"He told me to go fuck my mother..."
"Then?"
"I told him that I'd go fuck his mother on the way to fuck mine, as I knew where she lived."
He was silent a moment.
"So he stormed back into his house, then came out and pointed an automatic rifle at my head. He was high on DMT. It kind of got out of hand" he deadpanned.
"Riiight..."
I couldn't wait to meet this chap, obviously.

Considering I was expecting a demented Méxicano Rambo, the guy was fairly nondescript: quiet, small and in his late 50s. Alex waited away from the house while the man wandered off to his stash. Thankfully he returned with a bag of nice-smelling green marijuana...not a loaded AK47. But then, why would he? Leave the ill manners to the French, I say.

We doubled back and arrived at Palma Sola, our destination, as the sank into the ocean. A small settlement lay before of us, one small house with an open kitchen beneath a palm-frond roof held up by poles of felled trees. The family living here were sprawled about watching TV, some in hammocks, the rest on the floor. Alex had been here previously, and went to make arrangements with them. As things had been slow, the small cabaña the family rented out was offered to us very cheaply, and the family would cook for us. We unpacked and made our way down to the beach barely 30 yards beyond. I've seen some stunning beaches in my time, but this one was ours alone. Crystal clear water pounded the golden beach, and we were quick to change and get in for a swim before the light faded. Ceviche was prepared for us, and we saw the sun off with a few beers. Obviously the Chinese Japanese set had been brought, and joints were rolled as the mezcal flowed. It's the simple pleasures in life.

Alex had mentioned a beautiful girl in the family, whom he'd seen when last here. When the father of the family came and joined us on the beach the next morning, he asked about her. The man indicated a toddler on the floor of the kitchen; he said that the child was his grand-daughter, but that his daughter had left for Manzanillo immediately after the hurricane, unable to cope with the sudden loss of her husband. Alex asked what had happened to him. The old man looked out at the surf and said simply "The sea took him." All eyes glanced seaward, and we fell silent.

As lunchtime approached, we were asked if we'd like lobster for lunch. ¿Y porque no? The old fella wandered off back to his home, and we expected some kitchen activity to begin. But no: he came back with a mask and snorkel perched on his head and carrying a pair of fins. No doubt it was going to be the freshest seafood I'd ever eaten. As it turned out, lobster wasn't really my cup of tea...but at least I'd tried it in its prime condition. The tail I can deal with, but cracking claws and sucking the meat out of joints? The German and myself left such savagery to the French and American contingent.

Sunday disappeared all too quickly, and we packed and made ready to leave. Alex brought the bill over from the family. It was more than reasonable, so much so that we would have felt guilty paying it; we gave them a 50% tip on top, which amounted to around $15. They were delighted with this. Tourism levels are never high in Michoacán as it is, due to the danger from the narcotraffickers; the recent hurricane meant that any extra we could give people was bound to be appreciated. And they were good, honest people. I hope I'll see them again one day.

The afternoon light was disappearing fast as we travelled back, the truck speeding through tunnels of trees connecting above us from both sides of the road; the sun closer to the sea at every rocky point we passed before plunging back into leafy twilight; the sounds of the Doors accompanying us all the way. I hadn't listened to them for a long time, and it was perfect. A couple of hours later we were hitting the limits of Colima. And then we were home. I say the word home because, when you stay at the hostel, it feels like like a hostel than it does staying at a friend's house. Alex was flattered to be told this, and said it is exactly how he wants people to feel. Though I'm sure one day it will be a retirement home for mezcal and pot addicts with Chinese Japanese addiction issues. And I'll likely be a permanent resident. A contented one.

I'd been planning to leave the following day, as I'd been there a week. I'd seen all there was to see as far as the local sights go.
"So" said Alex over a mezcal "you're leaving tomorrow?"
"Supposed to be" I replied.
"Chinese Japanese, then?"
"Chinese Japanese" I said, pulling a packet of skins out of my pocket. "Rack them up, then..."

I didn't leave the next morning, and told the Frenchman that I'd be around a few more days. He seemed pleased. Two days later as I was getting up, he asked me if I could ride a motorbike? I answered affirmatively, but said I was rusty. So he said we were going out for the day. I took his 250cc and he went ahead on his BMW 650cc. We left Colima and headed out down the freeway (terrifying) in the direction of the coast again, but peeled off in the direction of the small village of Madrid. Our route was a loop back to the hostel, and on one country stretch, Alex was quite excited to be able to point out the volcano in the distance. Ironic that we could see it from bloody miles away at this point. The hurricane's edge had caused massive flooding in this part of the state, and we stopped for ceviche in an area which had been changed by the course of the floodwaters...including a road bridge completely washed away. It had been a great day out. We got back to the house tired, dusty but happy. Though I reckon my Old Dear would have had a heart attack if she'd seen the speeds Alex had me doing to try and keep up.

Another week passed; another self-imposed deadline to leave also passed. It became a bit of a running joke. I'd kiss Julieta and Teresa goodbye after a Sunday night, telling them I'd see them next time I was in México; they'd laugh and say they'd see me tomorrow. And they were right several times more, as I just couldn't bring myself to depart. You should never force yourself to leave somewhere just because there are other places to see, and it's foolish to rush around a country on a sightseeing tour...travel is about far more than that. I was very happy in Colima. Considering I did little more than visit a nice beach, wander round town and read my books in the park with a coffee, drink and dance at 1800, visit the depressing Colima Zoo quite by accident (a dark day...I never imagined feeling pity for a crocodile), play a board game I'd never heard of while smoking myself (well...Alex) senseless and attempt to kill myself using a motor vehicle, I had a great time. Another friend of Alex's, a girl named Elia, became a friend of mine after meeting at a party in a rented house (she told me there were no more nightclubs as too many people got shot, so they threw these private parties instead); if I spend any more time in Colima I'll see her regularly as she shares my love of cinema. I know I'd also see a lot more of Armando too. He'd called me into his tiny studio one morning and showed me his work, and we attended a play put on by children wearing masks that he and his friends had created; half of Colima turned out for this in the beautiful old teatro. I was impressed. And each time I attended a Tursday salsa night at 1800 I got to know more great people. I even got on with Niki most of the time, despite us fighting like cat and dog occasionally; me labelling him with the nickname Gestapo due to his constant questioning didn't go down too well. It was a bit like having an annoying younger brother around at times, but he was a good kid. He needs to learn Spanish and roll a joint now and again, though...lazy German. Sitting in the square of the neighbouring town, Villa de Álvarez, soaking up the atmosphere amongst smiling local families and eating a paleta (famous local ice-lollies) I frequently wondered whether I could actually live here? I was beginning to think that I could...very easily. Incidentally, you have to try the paletas. Alex had taken us to the well-known square, and we'd quickly become hooked: it became something of a weekly pilgrimage for us. Though we couldn't bear to watch Niki eating his, it appeared he'd been watching too many porn films...myself and Alex felt physically sick at the sight, and asked him if he was sure he was straight?

We had another day out on the bikes, Tere being keen to show us the region she'd grown up in. It was a long way out, and even more beautiful than the route myself and Alex had taken the previous week, terminating at one of the most beautiful waterfalls I've seen in a long time. It was dark as we arrived back in town, and the pair took me on an unfamiliar ride, past the turnoffs for the hostel and the town centre. We pulled up in a small park, where hordes of children were running around, laughing and screaming. Making our way through them to a lit area, I could see a dark shape among them and a smile began to creep across my face. It was a huge boulder...the famous Piedra de Lisa. Legend has it that anyone who slides down the stone will one day return to Colima. I climbed atop it and slid down it's smooth surface with a few open-mouthed kids in my wake. At the bottom Alex and Tere grinned and hugged me. "Now you have to come back" they told me. I laughed. "Who said I was leaving?"

Extremely Easy On The Eye

JULIAN HAD OFFERED Rachel, the older woman from NYC, a lift to Guadalajara with us. We drove over to her place to collect her stuff. Julian pulled out a joint to smoke before we left. Rachel asked if we were carrying any drugs besides this? I said No, Julian said A Bit. She was quite nervous, and insisted on a better hiding place than Julian was currently using. He told her to relax, as he'd been searched around fifteen times on the road so far, and the cops hadn't found a thing: they're looking for people carrying a little more than a few joints of grass, after all.

She quickly grabbed the front seat, leaving this 6'-tall Englishman crushed in the backseat between Julian's gear and her bags. Great...this was going to be a fun ride? As we set off out of Sayulita and pulled onto the highway, she remarked at the view. Since my view was the back of Julian's head and Rachel's two-foot-wide straw hat, I told her I couldn't possibly comment. She took the hint and removed it.

Julian was fiddling with the facia of his stereo.
"I hope you're not going to play any of that awful rap music?" she asked.
"Sorry?" asked the owner of the vehicle she was riding for free in.
"I really don't like that music...you'd have a very grumpy passenger if you play that..."
I caught Julian's eye in the rearview mirror, we exchanged raised eyebrows. If I'm a passenger in someone's car, the last thing I dream of doing is to dictate what music they can play. In fact, had I been driving, said New Yorker would have been getting a longer, closer look at said scenery while I disappeared in a cloud of dust, Public Enemy blaring from the speakers. Cheeky old mare.

"Can I turn the air-con down please? I'm very sensitive to temperature change" was the next request.
Sweating in the back, I rolled down the window. Julian did likewise.
"Can you just roll it down halfway? My ears are very sensitive to wind...they don't like being buffeted."
Anything else, Your Majesty?

I was actually glad of being in the back by now, Julian stuck in conversation with her. She had that awful habit of sign-reading: anything we passed on the road, she read out aloud. Thankfully she skipped the Coca-Cola signs, or it would have been non-stop. And she was a nervous passenger, saying "Whoa...whoa...whoa!" in increasing volume anytime we were near a truck which drifted across the white line as we overtook it, or if we rounded a bend and there were cars braking. I asked her if she had any valium with her, as she needed to calm down a bit? Having said that, if there'd been any valium, I think I'd have taken it first: an overdose.

It was blessed relief to reach the small pueblo of Tequila. As it was on the way, we thought we should stop. Julian wanted to buy some of the famous spirit for a friend he was due to see in the States soon. He was in and out of a few shops, unable to find exactly what he wanted, which was a quality bottle at a reasonable price. At the third shop, Rachel butted in and said she'd ask for him. She then used pretty basic Spanish to ask the owner what he recommended. I could tell by the Austalian's expression that he felt a little patronised...his Spanish being more than good enough to ask the questions himself.

She wandered off to buy postcards. "Man..." sighed Julian. "Doing your head in?" I asked. "Mine too." He told me that he'd given plenty of people a ride, but that she was the first he'd wanted to leave somewhere by the side of a road. She was lucky she was in her 60s, I reckoned.

Tequila seen, done and its namesake bought in a half-hour, we hit the road again. More signs were read out, just in case we hadn't seen the huge green metal things above the roads.
"Wooooow...look at the scenery...incredible" she gasped.
It was an average valley with a few trees. Julian caught my eye again in the mirror.
"Does anyone have any objections to me singing..?" she asked.
Weird.
"Errrr..." chorused myself and the Aussie, uncertainly.
She cleared her throat.
"Oh, give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above...don't fence me in. Let me ride through the wide-open country that I love...don't fe..."
Spying a gas station, Julian slewed across the road, gravel flying from beneath his tyres, and crunched to a hard stop. I was biting my lip to stop myself howling with laughter, knowing exactly what his game was. While the attendant filled the tank, Rachel went in to buy snacks.

"What the hell was that about?" he asked, his palm to his forehead.
"Dunno, mate...but good skills and quick thinking."
He grinned. Rachel was all but silent the rest of the way: no more murdering Cole Porter.

We arrived in Guadalajara, and located Rachel's hotel. She seemed surprised that we didn't want to check out the rooms, too. More comedy ensued when she asked Julian for his cellphone number...much um-ing and ah-ing before he realised he couldn't avoid giving it to her as he had the bloody thing in his hand. I was relieved that I didn't own one. We made a quick getaway, even considering a different hostel from the one we'd told her we were going to stay at after she said she'd drop by when she'd settled in. Personally I'd even have considered a different town. Thankfully it didn't come to that.

Guadalajara is México's second city, and the capital of Jalisco State, with a population of 1.6 million. It's a big place, but fairly low-rise, and seems deceptively small as you walk around the centro. Ask any Méxicano and 90% will tell you that this city is populated by the most beautiful women in the country. The other 10% are lying, blind or gay. Just a quick walk around the city centre backs this up. The Méxicanos consider the paler, taller women the prettiest...but there were more than enough dark-skinned moreñas for me to feast my eyes on. I've been to Brasil, Argentina and Colombia...the three countries considered to have the most beautiful latinas. But those in México beat them hands-down in my humble, red-blooded, cold-shower-needing opinion.

We were invited to a couple of parties, Julian's friend Liz knowing a few people in the city. The first was at a bar previously a house, an empty swimming pool in the garden packed full of revellers. The crowd were well-dressed and hip, and wouldn't have looked out of place in a European venue. The music was pretty good, too...a mix of House and hot Latin numbers. We had a few beers and mezcals before Liz said we should head for the other party. She and myself stopped in the street and I rolled the fastest joint I could, wary of the police cruising the streets looking to shakedown whoever they could. I didn't fancy paying a few thousand pesos to stay out of jail. We smoked it in the shadow of a tree, and then headed into the club. As we headed for the bar, my head spun...and it wasn't the weed spinning me out: an absolutely stunning woman walked by, all shining anthracite mane, flashing black eyes and a pair of legs most girls would give an arm for. I nudged Julian, but he was always pointing out another one. Then I spotted another incredible vision. They were everywhere. It suddenly clicked: Liz had mentioned earlier that the party was being thrown by a modelling agency. We were obviously in heaven and giggling like nervous schoolboys in their orbit; the only drawback being that all these creatures gracing our presence were in their early 20s. Had I been of that age myself, I think I'd have been engaged by the end of the evening; as it was, I had to content myself with just looking and rueing the fact I didn't come here in 1995. Oh well.

I got a haircut the next day, and the hot stylist was chatting me up. She asked me out, and we arranged to meet the next evening after she finished work. Julian left that afternoon, and I moved hostels. Heading out, I arrived at the salon to find her colleague there alone: my date had had to head home due to a problem with her kids. As I was leaving the next day anyway, it wasn't like the romance of the decade had failed...so I headed back up to the hostel for a quiet night with my book. I was still sat around when the Méxicano sharing my dorm happened by. He introduced himself as Martín and asked what I was up to? I explained my Loose End status and he laughed. Did I want to come to a party in a penthouse across the city, then? You bet your bollocks I did.

The rooftop of a hotel provided a 360-degree view of the city, an impressive sight at night. We got stuck into the beer and eyed the women. Pounding drum-and-bass was complimented by the fug of weed hanging in the air. Departing in the wee small hours, we ended up back at the dorm in a right old state. Just for a change. I awoke next morning, and Martín was up and starting to pack. He asked of my plans. "El plan es...no hay plan" I told him, and he laughed. My rough route was Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí and possibly the desert ghost-town of Real De Catorce. I asked where he was from, and he said Colima. I told him that it rang a bell, and I pulled out my map. I refuse to carry a guidebook these days; too heavy, and it's easy to either ask for recommendations or steal a quick look at someone's guide when in a hostel. I'd bought maps and marked off the locations I wanted to visit before leaving England. Colima and the surrounding area were covered in yellow highlighter ink. I asked him if he minded me tagging along, and he grinned at my change of tack, his hometown in the opposite direction to the intended Guanajuato. "El plan es...no hay plan?" I grinned back. "¡Claro!"

So we jumped a couple of local buses and waited on a dusty highway for a first-class bus. I didn't realise it then, but Martín was the catalyst which led me to one of my favourite periods in my whole trip.

Message In A Bottle

I DROPPED MY pack on the sandy road, and wiped the sweat from my eyes with my shoulder. The damp back of my tee-shirt clung to me in the afternoon heat. "How much?" I asked again in surprise. The big Mexican in front of the taco shop repeated the price of the rooms at his friend's place: $25 a night. And allegedly I wouldn't find cheaper. This place was going to rinse me out by the looks of things. I thanked him and said I'd take a look. I crossed the street on his directions and found the small hotel. A tall, scrawny American in his late 60s owned the place. His name was Dave. And he reeked of booze. I had to take a subtle step backwards when he spoke, for fear of being knocked out. His pale, watery blue eyes were streaked with red, and his hands shook as he looked for the keys to the room. The room was OK, but nothing special considering it was more than twice what I'd normally expect to pay. While we talked the price over, an older woman behind Dave came out of another room, and was waving at me as if to say No. He saw me frowning over his shoulder, and he turned to look at her. I told him I'd take a look around, and headed down the stairs. She followed me out. In the street she asked me what price I'd been quoted, and where else I was thinking of looking? Dave made her feel uneasy. I told her there were a couple of listed hostels, and I was about to look for them. She said she preferred a hotel, and said she'd see me around.

Sayulita is a small beach-fronted pueblito North of Puerto Vallarta's huge bay, in the state of Nayarit. I arrived mid-afternoon, the centre quiet, with most people on or around the beach. There are more holidaymakers than backpackers here, and I drew a few stares walking around town bearing my load. I tried the two hostels in the Lonely Paranoid. The first was locked up and a manky, growling dog guarded the door, seemingly keen on a piece of white man's leg for an afternoon snack. Dogs normally love me, sensing a fellow simple being I suppose, but dogs in México don't. One had gone for me as I'd walked home in Vallarta a couple of nights previously, lunging out of the darkness and scaring the shit out of me. According the two women outside the shop next door the place was open, the owner out of town on holiday. The two Méxican lads she'd left in charge had obviously decided to take a holiday, too? The second place was deserted, the rooms wide open and dead leaves on the floor. If I didn't have valuables with me, I'd have squatted. As it was, it was looking like Drunken Dave's Hotel Borracho.

Keen for the business, he dropped the room to $20. I noticed that the older woman had come back, too. Nothing much available in town on a budget, it seemed. I headed back to the taco place, and got chatting to JT, the Méxicano who'd directed me to Dave's. The shrimp tacos he'd promised me went far beyond expectations...they were excellent. He filled me in on Dave. The guy had been here years, and was leasing the hotel. All his money went on alcohol, and his wife had just left him. Sounded like the booze-soaked tale of many an ex-pat. Their day revolves around that first drink. I've seen this a lot on my travels: ex-pats drinking too much for lack of something to do, and then sitting around bitching about each other. Paradise looks different through the bottom of a bottle.

I took a look around town, and a nice little town it is. The tiny square is colourful and spotless, shaded by several trees. Coffee shops and restaurants surround it, and two blocks of houses and shops away is the beach. Gentle surf sees a lot of trainee 'boarders, and judging by the number of families on the beach, it's a popular holiday destination. Nothing exciting, but a good place to relax for a while. I'd get my tan back and catch up on some reading and writing.

At Hotel Borracho that evening, I was to be treated to the car-crash spectacle of Drunken Dave and his ex-spouse at war. The hotel was single-storey and featured six rooms around an open space with a balcony. A few friends of Dave's turned up, with the woman I later found to be his wife, and they populated the balcony. The drinking got heavier, I was writing and having a quiet couple of drinks. It got more and more raucous. The older woman, a New Yorker named Rachel, came out of her room around aghast. She said she'd been assured that this was a quiet place to stay. Wanted to know if it was going to continue late? I shrugged. How should I know? I turned in a short while later, leaving the drunk couple alone. The friends had left when they started bickering over their failed marriage. The conversation took a turn for the worse, and it soon became clear that I wouldn't be getting much sleep. I could hear everything through the door.

"Look at you" she hissed. "Look...at...you."
"What?" he mumbled.
"You fucking drunk. You're a drunk. Fucking drunk. Drunk. Fucker."
I opened my eyes.
Dave told her that she was free to go, as she didn't live there.
"I've seen you puke blood. Fucker...I've seen you shit blood" she slurred.
"You bitch. I should never have married you..." he replied.
"You're an alcoholic, Dave...just look at yourself...you fucking mess..."
"...fucking bitch..."
"You're going to die..." she sang, mockingly "and I'm going to watch you die, Dave..."
"So are you...look at you, you're fucking anorexic. You skinny bitch..."
"You're going to die, Dave..." the harridan said, mock-soothingly.
"Fuck you, too. Fucking bitch. Get out of here."
"...shitting and puking blood, on the floor...and I'm going to watch."
This had gone far enough. In fact, it had gone beyond anything I've ever heard in my life.

I left my room and walked out to the balcony. The emaciated witch dropped a glass on the floor, and shoved the broken pieces to one side with her foot. Neither made a move to clear it up. Several empty bottles littered the table. It took a full minute before Dave turned, bleary-eyed towards me.

"Everything OK?" he slurred.
"Not really, Dave. In fact, I'd say I'm pretty far from OK right now."
"Were we disturbing you? Oh I'm sorry...we'll try and keep it down."
I was disturbed, alright.
"For a start, you're keeping everyone awake...and this is your hotel" His wife turned to regard me. "And it's not really my business, but I have to say that if I heard my parents speak to each other in the way you two have been doing, I would be mortified. I've never heard anything so spiteful." She apologised. Dave meekly apologised again. I suggested they should sort their differences out with a clear head in the morning, and retired to my room. No wonder their kids never visit, according to JT?

"Dead, Dave. In your own...fucking...blood. And I can't wait. I'm going to watch you die, Dave...do you know that? Watch you. Die."
"Fuck you. You'll die, too...I'll kill you, you bitch..."
She laughed shrilly. I heard chairs overturn, the scrape of metal table-legs on tile, an ashtray hit the floor with a crash; I jumped up out of bed. JT was out of his room, picking up chairs. Rachel had come out of her room, too. A drunken friend of Dave's emerged from his, and tried to placate me as I remonstrated with the drunken pair. This place was like Fawlty Towers, but with violence, booze and little humour. I was off in the morning, no doubt about that.

His wife got up to leave. It was 2am. She apologised to me, and said it had been nice to meet me. Eh? She held out her hand, which I pointedly ignored. She staggered away down the stairs, muttering spite, and Dave slumped in his chair. "Sorry about that...it won't happen again." I told him that wasn't good enough, but that in my opinion he was much better off without that hateful wretch in his life. And then went back to bed.

Morning saw me leaving with a bad back from the lumpy bed, and a partial refund from Dave; he'd likely spent the rest on last night's jolly knees-up. I'd been on the verge of leaving, but had found a shabby hostal-in-progress run by a grumpy Chileño and a young Méxicano named Victor. Between these fellows and an Alaskan nicknamed Hollywood who frequented the place, my mind was changed about departing: a few days on the beach would do me good, and this lot liked a smoke. Though the moody Chileño liked smoking ours, and then rolling his own in the bathroom. Not very sociable. But Victor was great to be around, and took me to several good bars. Hollywood and I got on like a house on fire; he reminded of a slim Ray Winstone, and had a few good L.A. tales from his days of working there as an editor, hence his nickname. A solid drinking partner.

The days drifted by. Sun. Books. Beers. Smokes. I met a few more ex-pats as the week went on. Two women, one in her late 40s and the other a blonde Canadian in her early 20s, seemed a permanent fixture on the party scene. The older one was attractive, but it looked like years of hard-drinking were taking the edge off her looks. The younger one had introduced herself as they were walking by our table one night. Nice figure, but her mouth was surrounded by small spots and sores. Not my type. When she'd given me the eye and moved on, Hollywood leaned over and said "Stay away from that one...meth-head." She certainly looked it. I encountered these two with another woman late one night in a local bar a few blocks from the beach. A group of people outside Hotel Borracho warned me not to go in, as it was full of dodgy Méxicans, and the scene of constant trouble. Red rag to this bull: in I went. The place wasn't packed, but the pair were there with another friend. Soon drunk, myself and Hollywood were dancing with them. The older one leaned into me as the third one was writhing up behind me, groping me. "I think she wants you" she slurred, breathing potent rum fumes in my face. The spotty one was slyly grinning at me across the dancefloor. "Well" I said "you can't always get what you want." She looked a little puzzled as I extricated myself and escaped their clutches. I had a suspicion they'd probably been through most of the men in this town, and weren't used to being turned down.

I found myself chatting to the owner of the bar later, a gorgeous 44-year-old. She looked 30 if a day. We got on, and in my drunken stupor I started thinking that maybe I should stick around in Sayulita for a while longer? A few more tequilas and I decided Yes, that's exactly what I'll do...this place isn't so bad after all. Reckon I could live here etc etc. I even had a few dances more with the gruesome gropers. I might even have groped them back, I can't remember? It was a very messy night with a late finish.

Next morning I awoke with a sawdust mouth, but thankfully it was my own ceiling I saw when I first opened my eyes. The Australian lad, Julian, who'd turned up the night previously, was packing his bags. He'd offered me a lift to Guadalajara, but last night in the bar I'd been keen to stay on instead. I recalled the details of my late-night conversation with the latina: divorced, two twenty-something kids, jealous ex-husband in the town, and tied to the place by a dodgy bar. Hmmm. I stirred, and Julian looked over. "That lift still on, mate?" I asked. He nodded "Let's get the fuck out of here."

A Bridge Too Far

THE ROAD CUT through dense swathes of palm trees and vegetation, shadows and silhouettes swaying in the darkness. The bus shuddered over the potholed tarmac towards the coast and our destination of Puerto Vallarta. Dawn saw me in a taxi, flying along the highway bisecting the city. The overnight journey had taken its toll, and I rubbed my sore eyes wearily and cast doubtful glances at the rows of high-rise hotels drifting past my open window; the fresh salty air pleasantly stinging my nostrils as the the populace awoke for another day beneath a blistering sun.

I'd headed up here from DF after hearing about a upcoming postion for an instructor at one of the shops. Having had quite enough of towns and cities for now, I was aching for boats, beaches and sharks. It had been almost two full months since my last immersion on Utila in Honduras, and for a dive addict, that is a hell of a long time. My taxi driver was a chatty fellow, and we talked about the town. He told me that he had a nice room to rent long-term if my hostel wasn't comfortable enough? He gave me his number. I dumped my bags at the door to the hostel, grabbed a milkshake from a lady in the street and waited for them to open up. It was still very early.

I paid for three nights up front, thinking that this would give me plenty of time to speak to the dive shop, find my feet and decide where I was going to live. Stomach growling, I headed downhill into the pueblo around the river's mouth, the sea visible ahead of me. The place had a nice atmosphere, the cobbled road leading alongside the river and through narrow streets towards a small plaza. Many food stalls and local stores had cheery owners sat outside shooting the breeze with passers-by; I stopped and ordered shrimp ceviche on tostadas from one of them, and a fresh orange-and-carrot juice from the elderly lady next door. I like to share my money around a little. And the little old lady was very funny, squeezing oranges with an old mechanical juicer...pointing out her toned biceps while she worked, after I'd pointed out that she didn't need a gym with that kind of work to do.

Belly appeased, I set off walking again. I liked the atmosphere of the place, and saw a couple of potential homes with Se Renta painted on them. Towards the beachfront things got a little too glitzy for my liking, but then Vallarta is a large resort. Hopefully I'd be able to avoid most of this in my day-to-day routine. Then I reached the bridges across the river. They may as well have been the gates of Hell.

The cute old town ended immediately at the bridge. On the other side the shiny developments, bars and restaurants started. Starbucks. Two of the horrific Señor Frogs chain of bars...the true Méxican experience, no? This was like being back in Cancún. My heart sank to my flip-flops as a beaming local hailed me from a shop doorway "Hey, buddy...how are you liking your vacation?" As of thirty minutes ago, I'm hating it, thanks for asking. I continued on, gazing at the upmarket shops and restaurants as I walked down the Malecón, the pedestrianised seafront. It depressed me. Ancient tourists in sandals and white socks, slathered in sunblock, ambled along the front and hung out in front of the bars with their frozen cocktails. Three days. Three bloody days here? Did I learn nothing from the Taxco experience? Apparently not. I sat chiding myself for being so stupid, especially as I recalled the prominent No Refunds At All sign behind the desk at the hostal. Jesus. So the internal debate was: do I just bin two nights accommodation in favour of not wasting 2-3 days of my remaining time? Tough call.

I got halfway down the Marina and stopped dead in my tracks; turned around and walked back to the main road and hailed a bus back to the hostal. I'd email the shop from there and tell them Thanks, But No Thanks. Why waste time walking over there when I'd clearly made up my mind? Even if the diving was outstanding, which the Méxican Pacific isn't, there was no way on earth that I could live in this tourist hellhole. I'd sooner live in Mogadishu. Honestly.

I awoke from a nap to find a short, shaven-headed Canadian fella a little older than myself rolling a joint, cross-legged on the dormitory floor. His name was Karl. He told me he'd just arrived, but had lived here previously. "Man, it's changed around here. When I was here fifteen years ago, this road was never even here...just trees. I just bought some tacos for 60 pesos. They were 20 when I was here before. Maaaan...I lived on the edge of the jungle up there..." he indicated a forested ridge above us "...just me and my girl. Hardly any Westerners here...I just spoke Spanish all the time, man. Learned it in two months. Everything's different now." He passed the joint. He filled me in on the area and his experiences...all good and interesting so far.

We chatted some more about his plans to get further North up the coast, to find some less-populated areas and beaches. Sayulita was on his list, as well as mine. "Man, Sayuita's probably changed, too. I was there fifteen years ago..." After a couple of hours Karl went from someone who could have made the three days bearable to a painful stuck record. Stuck fifteen years in the past. I'd quickly realised Karl's angle before he spelled it out "Man...you should have been here fifteen years ago...everything was better. You've missed it...you're too late." Karl is a I Was Here First And Everything Is Rubbish Now merchant. These types become tedious pretty quickly.

"Thanks, Karl...I'm sure there are still some places worth visiting... México hasn't died just because one place gets the taste for tourists?"
"No...sure. I'm just telling you like it was, man. Fifteen years ago..."
You get the picture.

He accompanied me out to get an afternoon coffee. I had to keep stopping to let him catch up. I'd estimate his pace at a mere 2km/hr.
"Karl...can't you walk any faster?"
"Maaan..." he grinned, stoned out of his mind behind his sunglasses.
"Man nothing...get a bloody move on...coffee'll be out of fashion by the time you get there."
"Maaan...you need to get your Méxican groove on...slow down, man. I got my Méxican groove down..."
I wanted my coffee. Not my Méxican groove.
"I'm not even walking that fast, Karl?"
My London pace gets left at Heathrow airport. Well...mostly.
"Just speed up a little, Karl...look..." I indicated the abuelita passing him "even little old ladies are overtaking you."
He was nonplussed, a big, beatific grin on his face.
"What's the rush, maaan? We're just walking..?"
"Yes, but walking is a method of getting somewhere in order to do something else...like sit and drink coffee?"
"Yeah, man...but..."
But bloody nothing.
"Tell you what, mate...meet you there?"
I needed a coffee some time that afternoon...not the weekend after next.

I visited the beach at Boca the next day, a half-hour bus ride South. It was a better vibe here, the tourists being Méxicanos rather than Western. Sat on the beach all day and read my book, then had a walk upriver and chatted to a few locals. A nice day out. It broke up my time in Vallarta nicely, too. I'd spent all my time in the old part of town anyway, refusing to cross the dreaded bridge ever again. The dive shop didn't reply to my apologetic email about the vacancy. No great loss...I'll never be back.

I'd packed the night previously, and headed out for my final shrimp ceviche tostadas and orange juice. It was midmorning, and the burly ceviche vendor was already on the ale. We'd chatted a lot the last few days, and he offered me some beer and grass, if only I'd hang out at the stall with him and his friends. As enticing an offer as that was, his compadres were a great bunch, I had to escape this town. Getting back to the hostal to grab my bags, I bumped into Karl on the stairs. He asked me how I'd found Boca? I told him very relaxing and peaceful. "Maaan, I bet it's all changed since I was last there. I remember fifteen years back there wasn't even a road down that way. I could sure tell you some stories..."

I left.

Herbie Goes Bananas

TAXCO SHOULD BE picture-postcard perfect. A small pueblo, famous for its silver and jewellery, it sits on a hillside a few hours out of México DF by road. The silver mining industry is all but dead, and now tourism has taken over. I'd been quite excited about seeing the place, expecting to come away with a nice bespoke item after a relaxing weekend. As the bus rounded the curve and the valley came into view, Taxco shone brilliant white from the hillside it covered. I'd come with an Austrian architect named Karina whom I'd met at the hostel in DF, and she was as taken with the view as I was. We'd booked three nights in a hotel, there being no cheap hostel options in this town. We'd soon find out why.

The bus pulled into the tiny station, and we climbed uphill through the tight, pavement-free cobbled streets and into the centre. The place looked very pretty. As we approached the town plaza, I estimated we'd been passed by at least twenty white VW Beetles with numbered red circles on their doors. The noise of idling engines grew as we reached the square; a band of these taxis, two or three wide, snaked through the wide streets around it; all making for the exit at the far side, it being a one-way system due to the tight streets around town. Myself and Karina looked at each other "What the bloody hell is this?" I asked her. As we picked our way through the cars and asked directions to our hotel, she was voicing my fears "Maybe we should have just booked the one night?" Indeed. Too late now.

We found the entrance to the hotel and mounted the 157 steps to the reception. Karina counted them. These Austrians are almost as precise as the Germans? Our misgivings grew in magnitude as we got higher: dusty, long-unused tables and chairs with cobwebs all over them were randomly placed all over one terrace. Workmen were hammering away from within a tarpaulin-covered doorway next to the reception. I caught Karina's eye, and realised we were both thinking the same thing. The woman on duty showed us three rooms of a similar standard, but with differing shapes and furniture. We took the last one on the upper floor.

The room was grand. Or at least it probably was in the 40s. Indeed, from the state of the hotel in general, you'd have thought that visitors really were here last in 1940: Hermann Goering's Luftwaffe. And they were still cleaning up the mess. The bed looked big and comfortable, until Karina fell through the middle and realised that it was, in fact, two single beds pushed together: great. I took a look at the balcony. The view from the rusty wrought-iron chairs around the wobbly table was nice enough: if you ignored the weeds creeping from the cracks in the bricks and the dead leaves strewn all over the place. Karina emerged from the bathroom as I was re-fixing the guttering which hung down over the double doors from the room. "Look at the state of this" I said. I also pointed out the ancient roof tiles as stained and badly-set as a tramp's teeth. She grinned. "How is the bathroom?" I asked. "OK...but very old...and there doesn't seem to be any hot water." It just got better and better? I went and found the nightwatchman, an amiable old fellow named Carmelito, who informed me that we had to run the water for ten minutes before it got hot. So we were wasting almost a swimming pool of water before we could have a rinse in the shower? Must be some sort of Méxican eco-lodge. "Three days" I muttered. "Do you think they'll let us cancel one or two nights?" Karina asked me. I raised my eyebrows doubtfully. As we were likely the only guests here, I don't think a refund was on the cards. So...what the bloody hell were we going to do for three nights here?

After a first, thankfully very quiet and peaceful night atop the slope, we descended to check out the town. The burble of Beetle engines awaited us like a growling dog. Heading into the square through the mid-morning throng of white cars, we found a decent coffee and sat in the square with it. I spat half of mine out as a woman walked through the paved centre holding a small Polish flag aloft, a line of sandal-wearing, shuffling people twenty-strong behind her. Another group was less than five minutes in following. "Look" I said "a Japanese fellow with only two cameras. Travelling light." Karina laughed and bemoaned "A little bit touristy, isn't it?" How we laughed mirthlessly at our misfortune.

The smiles were well and truly wiped from our faces at lunch, when confronted with menu prices three times those of México DF. This was most definitely not a backpacker destination. Bad enough if the crappy food didn't add injury to the insult. When you're a captive audience people can charge whatever they like for any old rubbish, just like Picadilly in Central London. In fact, those shitty week-old slices of pizza you see under the hot displays in downmarket London takeaways are probably tastier and twice as nutritious as the one we had in Taxco's main plaza. "Oh it's not that bad" Karina scolded me. Compared to what, I thought...McDonald's? Eating wood?

Another day, another (thankfully) great coffee. This time the balcony overlooking the square was free, and we quickly took it. Below our vantage point was the entrance to said square, and we watched the line of traffic crawling through. For such a beautiful little town, it's a crying shame that there is, quite literally, not a moment's silence. We sat for an hour waiting for the traffic noise to die away to nothing, but there was always the growing metallic rattle of another approaching Beetle. "Is this a joke?" Karina asked me. If it was, it was definitely on us. Three days? Even the locals looked at us funny on Day Two...surprised we were still there, no doubt.

Depressingly, all the silver shops stocked the same mediocre shit; hardly the variety of Camden Market. Decent pieces were extremely thin on the ground. It was a little disappointing that there was only one independent workshop we could find. They had some nice stuff: for women. Ah well. More money saved to spend on diving, no? Or booze. At least Karina found something she liked. And I found her bargaining over 50 pesos (£2.50) quite amusing...it went on for a while before she caved in. I was amused, the shop owner less so. At least in that particular shop the staff weren't constantly on our heels making sure we weren't stealing anything; most followed us or positioned themselves so that they could see our hands at all times. I mean...there may be a slight Liverpool lilt to my Spanish, but I'm hardly going to start nicking everything that isn't nailed down? Feeling like a criminal while shopping isn't a comfortable experience, so we gave up after a while.

We took a walk around the hilly streets. This town's layout is truly crazy, a map wouldn't do you much good. The roads veer off uphill in scattered directions: it's all over the place. It has a certain charm, but the traffic killed it stone dead for us. After breakfast at the bend of a road, just above the square, we sat and watched the intricate mechanical ballet as taxis came from opposite directions and manoeuvered around each other in a dance of three-point-turns, engines revving noisily on the slopes. As the traffic snarled up the passage, I headed uphill and counted the VW Beetles in the jam: 15 of them. But the drivers don't get irate. No-one honks or shakes fists. In NYC or London I reckon someone would be beaten to death with a steering wheel. I took advantage of the fact that drivers were stood around chatting to ask how many taxis there were in Taxco. Over 300, apparently.

Having seen everything of the town in the first hour of the first day, we headed out to the Cascadas de Cacalotenango, less than an hour away by minibus. No drone of Beetles here as we jumped out of the colectivo bus. A short hike uphill in the quiet of the valley below us was pleasant in the midmorning heat. We passed a local with some delightful little cabañas to rent, and wished again that we weren't stuck at Hotel Decrepit. The tranquility here suited us far better. After a short conversation and a look around, we headed to the fall. Quickly changed after a wade across the stream, we were in the freezing cold water for barely a minute each dip. It was so cold that it made the head swim and vision blur. Climbing out across the rocks I looked over at Karina and mentally remarked that a pneumatic, blue-eyed Austrian blonde dripping water, nipples erect in a grey bikini and covered in goosebumps, looked a damn sight sexier than an overweight Englishman with wet shorts clinging to a manhood wisely retreating from the intense cold? Ah well. Can't win them all, old chap.

So we were glad to escape Taxco after the third night. I wouldn't say to avoid the place entirely, as it's pretty enough and certainly worth a visit. But if you're in México DF, get up early and see the place on a day trip. If you do happen to get stuck here overnight, be sure not to stay at Hotel Decrepit. And bring a packed lunch.