Dancing in the street (BYO pineapple)

There’s no better time to visit a place than during a festival. There’s always an air of excitement and anticipation, people are happy, plazas are buzzing, and in Mexico, it’s all about music and colour. We arrived in Oaxaca City as it was preparing for its annual Guelaguetza festival, when representatives from local communities perform regional folk dances in traditional clothing. Most people associate this festival the female dancers from the Papaloapan region who dance with pineapples. So you can imagine that at this time, the city is a buzz with activity and although we actually missed the formal parade, we were there for a pre-festival run-through down the main street, and got a preview of the costumes, colours, and of course, the pineapples.

We arrived in Oaxaca after an overnight bus ride from Puerto Escondido. Once we got over our annoyance at a local policeman who’d given us wrong directions and caused us to catch a cab three blocks, and over our giggling at a room mate’s insistence on detailing the past sample she’d produced for a traveller’s diarrhoea trial, we were able to appreciate our hostel. ‘Hostel Don Nino’ was a far cry from the grubby place we’d stayed in San Cristobal. This place was anal about cleanliness, in a good way, and was more like a hotel than a hostel. And, after doing the red eye on a bus, who wouldn’t appreciate hot, high pressured showers pimped up a bit with shampoo, conditioner and body wash pumps. We even had our beds made each day, which usually took place while we were enjoying a hearty Mexican breakfast. So we were off to a good start in Oaxaca City.

Unfortunately, however, the rain followed us, but thankfully nowhere near to the extent of San Cristobal. So with the weather in our favour, we spent a lot of time cruising around the city centre and enjoying the festive vibe. We worked our way from the main plaza to what we thought was the ‘Palacio Gobierno’ (but which turned out to be more of a children’s interactive museum) and continued on to the main market where we resisted offers of dried grasshoppers, apparently a specialty in these parts. We made the obligatory visit to the beautiful Santa Domingo church and also explored the cultural centre next door, which had an impressive view of the botanical garden and its impressive number of cacti species.

And a typical day for us isn’t without some form of culinary experience. Although we drew the line at grasshoppers we did get stuck into the street food, which is amazing all over Mexico. I also fell in love with a gorgeous little café called ‘Pan & Co’ which served up a pretty good cappuccino (difficult to find in Central and South America). One night we enjoyed the cuisine at ‘Café Real’, where the menu offering of lamb chops was irresistible to my Australian lamb-loving pallet. We also fell victim to the café’s wine list, which had us enjoying an uncharacteristic night out on the town with a 52-year-old divorcee from Seattle!

Clockwise from left: the Convent attached to Santa Domingo,
activity in the Zocalo, balloons in the Zocalo, Santa Domingo church

One thing that comes to mind when people think of Mexico is - yep, I know you’re thinking it - tequila. Since our visit to Oaxaca we’ve learned that tequila is made from the blue agave plant and the very similar tasting mezcal is made from any variety of agave. The week we were in Oaxaca was also the week the International Mezcal festival rolled into town and it happened to be in the plaza directly opposite our hostel. It would have been silly not to have gone, but was it a little over the top to have gone twice, the second time just hours before an 11 hour night bus to Puerto Escondido? All I can say is that life is one big learning experience. After many a ‘tasting’, one at 48% alcohol, I now know how to do a tequila/mezcal shot without getting the gag-worthy sting at the end. The Mexicans sure know a thing or two when it comes to the art of drinking Mezcal! In hindsight though, I’m wondering if perhaps the festival contributed to my sleepless night on the bus to Puerto Escondido, or maybe it was just Murphy’s Law, that the last overnight bus trip I took in South and Central America be my worst.