The time I went to Mexico…

By the time COVID restrictions had lifted, foreign travel felt like something I used to do; I mean, I’d a full fortnight’s holidays at Easter and had gone no further than Tory (no harm to it like). The bit of courage it takes to belt off alone was slipping away, though I was nowhere near done with travelling.

So, I cleared out an old American bank account and went to New Orleans and Dallas for some of that American exuberance I love so much. And for an adventure somewhere unfamiliar, fresh and novel, different, I toured Mexico and travelled from Mexico City through mountainous southern Mexico and the Chiapas state, north then to the Yucatan peninsula and finishing near Cancun on the Caribbean coast.

The wanderlust has not waned, that I can say for sure.

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No matter where the destination, I have to have my wits about me but I never felt unsafe throughout my travels across Mexico, though I was of course in areas of high tourist traffic. The violence Mexico has a reputation for is largely limited to states on the US border and some Pacific areas. Mexico is a developing country – the minimum wage is approx. $3.50 a day – and poverty is more apparent among indigenous populations. Life moves slower in Mexico, and patience is needed there (it’s needed in Ireland too). But walk a street and see how hard, how long and how old people work there and Mexican stereotypes ring as hollow as any other.

What I didn’t know of Mexico was the richness of its history and heritage; the ingenuity of the ancient cultures, the depravity of Spanish conquest, the long road to a republic. I definitely didn’t know how big Mexico is; it’s the thirteenth largest country in the world. Nor did I know that several indigenous communities live largely independent of central government in Zapatista autonomous zones after a 1994 uprising in protest at oppression by large landowners and government. Or that Mexico City’s metro system is one of the most used in the world, surpassed in North America only by New York’s subway.

I really hadn’t a clue what to expect of Mexico.

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The vibrancy of colour is what I’ll remember most of Mexico. Houses, homes and shops of vivid purples, greens and yellows. Limes as sharp in appearance as in taste. Caribbean water, piercing in its brightness and lit cyan-blue by white sand beneath. Entire walls of murals in colours as bold and uncompromising as the stories they told. Dreamy designs stenciled onto house gables. Cathedrals solemn and dark, but local churches painted candy-colour yellows, oranges and pinks. Lush green gorges and valleys of abundant growth. The green, white and red of the Mexican flag brilliant amidst the stone of a municipal square. Town names spelled out in vividly-coloured letters as tall as I – for the eyes of Instagram no doubt, but a nod too to the country’s vibrancy.

The floaty feeling of magnificent moments, like literally floating in cenotes (pools in open underground caves), staring at sky and canopy. Or happening upon a twelve-piece orchestra tuning up for a free concert in the dazzling interior of a sixteenth-century cathedral. Arias sung on the side walk. Routes driven up corkscrew hills, jungle on all sides. Stepping up from the subway, and being blindsided by the unexpected grandeur of the Zócalo – the central square of Mexico City.

Every day I felt swells of joy in my chest, broad smiles creeping across my face, and my eyes widening in amazement. Every day.

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Like Ireland, Mexico used to be mega-Catholic and is covered in churches. Mexico too was colonised by a foreign invader (though Mexico got a way worse doing than Ireland) and because Spanish is the language spoken by the minority, the likes of me can kind of scrape by.

And yet, there was plenty different and unfamiliar in Mexico. Iglesia de San Juan Chamula where Catholicism is practiced reverently, but alongside pagan rituals such as animal sacrifice (not gory, just wringing the neck of chicken), belching – with the aid of Coca Cola – to expel bad spirits, and the covering of the floor with pine needles to honour the landscape. Passing through indigenous and Zapatista-governed areas largely independent of the central government, where ancient traditions and languages survive amidst considerable poverty. A mad night at the lucha libre wrestling, and the thunderous applause of every, I dunno, ‘move’?? The food – tacos a little larger than my palm with meat and vegetable piled – and the leap of faith taken tasting any salsa served. The driving, and the first Nissan Sunny I’d seen since the 1990s. Not flushing toilet paper. The heat, and the searing sun that burned me one day through the water.  

If I’d my time again, I’d have had more time in Mexico City because it is a hive of museums and galleries. Murals throughout the city tells the nation’s story of conquest, independence, civil war, dictatorship and the life of a troubled republic. I’d have learned some or more Spanish; I saw tonnes but missed out on more by not having the language. I’d have learned more about the Mexican revolution, about Frida Kahlo, about the Zapatista movement. I’d certainly have broken in the new Birkenstocks and packed Sudocrem.

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Mexico is above all vibrant. But that said, the real joy was the adventure; the rucksack on my back again, the striking off to new and unknown somewheres. The assumptions questioned, the welcome assault on my ideas of the world. Every day something new. I couldn’t recommend Mexico highly enough.

Mexico. Or anywhere with even the whiff of an adventure.

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Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, other posts can be found here – they’re mostly about Inis Meáin these days, but there’s stuff there about politics, home, rural living and other notions I took on given days. I’m on Twitter too, if you really like what you read!!