The next in Elisha's "you are here" series

“I’m sure glad I won’t ever have to drive through this city!” Tony’s famous last words on the bus out of town last night.  We left Mexico City on Sunday to avoid the possibility of trouble with the “Hoy no Circulo” (don’t drive today) rules, which seem a bit foggy where foreign license plates are concerned.  We’d planned to take the eastern loop around the city (which is supposed to be free and less congested.)  “No, no no!” said Mina, shaking her head.  “You cannot take this one road.  We had big rains three days last week… this is not the raining season, you know, but nature do what she like to do,” the proprietress of our campground continued.  “There was big rains and the pipes she broke and wash the road away.  The bad part is, this was the BLACK water,” her eyes got big as she made sure we understood.  No road and an ocean of sewage.  Got it.  We can’t take that road.

Local mother and child-Cuernavaca

We drove straight through the center of the city on the Cuenta (toll) road and it only cost $46.00 pesos.  Shockingly, our GPS had the roads in her little brain and we sailed through with only a couple of tense moments when the road (with no lines, mind you) instantly transformed from three lanes to five and then back to four without warning.  I’d mentioned this possibility to my husband, but nothing quite prepares you for that inevitability at 60 km/hr.    The children admired the snow covered mountains to the east.  I marveled at the mass of humanity, as I always do and shouted to the kids to “Look quick!” at the marching band crossing the bridge overhead when we sailed past Chapultapec Park.

We ate lunch in a shack on the side of a mountain in some nameless Puebla south of the city.  Fortifying ourselves with blue corn tortillas, hand pressed by the senora whose daughter, Hannah’s age, was doing the cooking.  The kids played with some local children on spinning playground equipment that certainly wouldn’t pass muster anywhere north of the border and had a great time, appearing occasionally to chomp off a bite of a taco before running back outside to play.  The mountain roads dip and twist unpredictably at perilous angles.  Tony, who is forever asking me to translate the road signs, said, “Hey!  I think I just saw one that said ‘watch for falling transmissions!’”  Very funny.

On the zocalo Sunday afternoon

Our destination: Cuernavaca; in English: cow’s horn.  Don’t ask me how it got it’s name.  It is a good 2000 ft. lower than Mexico City, and as such, quite a bit warmer.  Sunday is the perfect day to arrive.  Mexico does weekends in a way that the rest of the world could take note of.  The Zocalo was filled to overflowing with wonderful people, music, comedians, balloon sellers and the usual variety of vendors of our favorite things to eat.  I was particularly pleased to note that we’re getting into the area of Mexico where beautiful baskets of every shape and size begin appearing roadside piled all over the place.  We came here to see Cortez’s palace.  He lived here for several years and built himself quite a little castle as well as a cathedral that doubled as a fortress.  The Spanish were famous for benevolently building the locals a church that later could be used by the Spanish to hole up in and shoot at those same natives, should they become restless.  We discussed with the children the ethical ambiguities of mixing church work with business.

Gabe's art card painting

I was quietly pleased when Elisha mentioned, “These look like the paintings we saw yesterday, Mom,” in relation to the Diego Rivera murals that line the upper balcony of Cortez’s palace.  Gabe even found the portion of the mural that is represented on the art card he chose to add to his journal (an Indian warrior in a jaguar suit, stabbing a Spaniard with glee.)

Cortez's palace

Loaded up with fabric for Hannah to sew her own sundress with, postcards, and sticks of tough local corn coated with lime and chile and cheese to gnaw on while we walked, we headed out of town.  We’re camped south of the city a ways in a place we’d NEVER have found without our camping book.  The last set of directions read something like, “You’ll see a dirt mule track on the left, take it and rumble back through potholes big enough to swallow a small car for a half mile and then ring the bell on the locked gate on your left.”  Ummm… okay.  Turns out it’s the best place we’ve camped yet.  A huge playground (don’t even ask if the toys are safe, of course they’re not, that’s the fun of a Mexican playground!) a swimming pool and agua caliente.  AND they even have internet, so Tony will spend the day working while the kids and I hand wash a load of laundry and muck out the van.  Next stop:  Oaxaca (Wah-Ha-Kah)