Mazatlan and Guadalajara

With the intention being now to work our way down Mexico we had a quick turnaround in Los Mochis after going up the copper canyon and back. Our train into Los Mochis on Saturday evening was about an hour late so by the time we'd dodged the mozzies at the station and shared a taxi back to civilisation with 4 other Mexicanos it was around 2300 hours and we were up, out and on the bus to Mazatlan at 0930 the next morning. Whilst that might seem like hard work it's infinitely better than hanging around somewhere with not much to see and do; far better to get cracking and get to a nice beach, something we thought particularly strongly about after our sojourn inland. We were lucky that there was a bus in just a few minutes time from our enquiry and we traded just under M$800 for 2 tickets for the 5 hour journey to the aforementioned Mazatlan. (not to be confused with the cheap clothes emporium in Blighty as suggested by one facebook wag) This particular bus journey was a joy, despite our having to sit apart on account of our buying 2 of the last 3 seats available. The bus was brand new and had ultra comfortable seats, wi-fi, more leg room than Robert Pershing Wadlow would need, separate toilets for male and female and a completely annexed driving compartment so that the driver wouldn't be interfered with or otherwise distracted by pesky passengers. It was, in short, a delight and the time on-board whizzed by. The only slight criticism would be that our fellow passengers wanted all the curtains drawn to keep the bright sunlight out. Whilst I can understand that, for us it was frustrating because we so desperately want to soak up all vistas. It's akin to spending a night with the woman of your dreams whilst wearing a wetsuit. There was a nervy moment at Culiacan where we disembarked for a 15 minute break and left all our bags on-board, only to watch the bus pull off and disappear. It was only going for refuelling as if turned out but it had us going for a minute. We arrived in Mazatlan at about 1430 and got a taxi the 3-4 miles up to the zona dorado (the gold zone) to our hotel, the Azteca Inn. No sooner had we checked in than we realised we had made a grave mistake. Our room was right by the pool in which were around 30 excitable and extremely noisy teenagers rendering it largely out of bounds. On top of that there were mozzies in the room which, no matter how much we tried, we simply couldn't eradicate them with our Memphis-baseball-game-issued mozzie swatter. We went out for dinner and to discuss our options and ended up hopelessly lost in some backstreets as night fell which further damaged our perception of the town. We resolved to move out of the gold zone and head down into the old town first thing tomorrow. This was a great move as we secured a room overlooking the seafront with a balcony for just M$595, less than a slap -up dinner. It was beautifully positioned and had both a pool and was situated opposite a small stretch of beach frequented by locals. Though we loved Mazatlan we found that the general disdain for Gringos is as prevalent here as anywhere. As a rule they won't look at you in the street, much less offer you a cheery "hola" or a smile. I expect this is because they assume we are Americano, a nation the Mexicans have a paradoxical relationship with. On the one hand well-heeled Mexicans are generally dressed in 'western' attire and models and tv presenters hail from the lighter side of mestizo. On the other hand the septic tanks relieved Mexico of an awful lot of land in the 1800s and then, by a wonderfully fortunate coincidence, discovered oil on that very land less than a week later, facts undoubtedly forming part of the schools history curriculum. It results in a sort of "I want your wealth and beauty and global power, you robbing baskets" type situation.     The alternative is that they may think we're Spanish, the nation responsible for decimating one of the most magnificent indigenous cultures that there ever was. (notwithstanding the indigenes propensity to remove people's hearts from their bodies using a stone knife whilst they were still alive) Either way we're on a sticky wicket being gringos, though to their credit the locals will say hello if you speak first. One thing I particularly admire of them is their love and respect of the family unit. Families get together regularly, dine out, go to the beach, visit each others homes. There's a genuine familial bond that I don't think we have in the UK any more. I say UK but some people's families aren't even there any longer, that's how little emphasis some place on it nowadays. Whilst taking breakfast on the seafront one morning there was an almighty din created by the staff who emerged from the restaurant blowing whistles, clanking spoons and clapping. They approached a table and placed a sea captains hat on the head of an elderly pudding of a woman and proceeded to sing some sort of birthday song. They then all shook her hand and left her to get on with her birthday breakfast. I managed not to lower the tone of this family affair as I had done at a similar occasion in La Paz; but a Greece equaliser is surely reason enough to leap from your seat, clap loudly and exhort Saxon colloquialisms! We took in England's victory over Ukraine on Tuesday in a bar called Gringo Lingo. As we were the only clients the guys there were happy to give up their prime sited tv to the match complete with English commentary. Whilst the match wouldn't win any prizes for technical merit I cared not a jot. 7 points, top of the group, avoiding Spain in the next round and grinding out results when you're not capable of much else are all reasons to celebrate wildly in my book and I think all the naysayers bemoaning our lack of flair are missing the point completely. I firmly believe we can dick Italy, possibly on penalties, and then it's the Germans in another semi and probable glorious failure. Though the surroundings were great I think we were slipped a Micky Finn in our limonadas because Kerry began to feel a little dicky towards the end of the game and 6 hours later I was almost running from a restaurant back to our gaff in order to expunge a vile concoction in what was an exceptionally close call. Despite the great hotel, fine beach and fascinating town we needed to get going again so after an 11 hour sleep where my body repaired itself after the intestinal horror of the previous evening we planned our next move. Rising at 9, a leisurely seafront brekkie and a stop-start Skype with Connor meant we didn't get to the bus station until midday and that the next bus to Guadalajara was at 1400, would take 8 hours and we would pass through a time zone meant we didn't reach our hotel until nearly midnight. We won't be leaving a long journey so late in the day again. The journey itself was interesting as we passed through some spectacular highland scenery and, sitting in the very front seats, were privy to the tremendous ability of our driver to drive at 100 km/h in the sheeting rain whilst texting and opening a plastic bag full of boiled eggs with his teeth. So, Guadalajara, the base for the Brazilian world cup squads of both 1970 and 1986 (you can't accuse this blog of not being educational), and for us just a stopover en route to Mexico city. We did some laundry here for after the heat of the past two weeks, particularly in Mazatlan, my clothes were causing offence to anyone within 10 yards of me. With the chores done we set out on a little tour of this grand city of 3 million inhabitants and marvelled at some of the architecture, most notably the churches. It is a classically colonial city with palaces, museums, governmental seats and statues galore. Obviously with our only being here for one full day we saw but a tiny part of it but what we did see was fabulous. In order to maximise our time we took a 90 minute tour bus which came in the form of an antiquated charabanc. The gringos hanging out of the windows taking pictures of anything and everything came in for a fair bit of attention in so ridiculous a vehicle. We're just a few hours away from Mexico city as I type this but before I sign off I just want to thank those of you who are keeping in touch whilst we're away as it means an awful lot to both of us. Special mention must go to my dear old mother who is doing a sterling job coming to terms with this new fangled Internet, my bueno amigo Roberto McBarnes-Watts of Inverness who is proving that at least someone is reading my garbled ramblings and to my middle daughter Jasmine who sent me the most beautiful letter the other day. Though I don't see those lamb chops very often it's lovely to know that distance and all the other nonsense hasn't diminished our bond. From Kerry's perspective it's e-high fives to: Madre and Padre, Jamie - high priest of Dropbox and Connipeg and Jordation.