Reaching Mexico City’s huge East bus terminal to buy a ticket to Oaxáca, my supposed knowledge of Spanish pronunciation failed me. I asked for a ticket to “O-AK-sa-ca” and the man behind the glass looked at me blankly. After showing it written in my book, the penny dropped, and he said “Wa-HA-ca”. He gave me a ticket for a nice comfortable bus which by midday was already south of Mexico City, and speeding me south amongst the cactuses. Or cacti.
It was a long trip – 10 hours – made bearable thanks to the scenery. The last part was increasingly hilly. Finally at 9pm the bus rolled into Oaxáca terminal and I walked down to the centre of the town. It was a lively place, with a lot of people around, including one or two fellow backpackers. The hotel I found was cheap. That was the only positive thing going for it – it later appeared that it likely had hourly rooms as well as nightly rooms…
In the morning I got up early and went straight back to the terminal. My next planned stop was San Cristobal de las Casas and I wasn’t sure how often the buses went. It turned out the only option was a night bus, so that gave me the day in Oaxáca. I changed some more pesos and bought my onwards ticket.
The big local attraction according to my book was the ruins of Monte Albán, so after enjoying the lively market in the centre of Oaxáca and visiting a church, I found a bus to the ruins. Monte Albán is a very ancient hilltop town and ceremonial site, which was active for 1000 years, up until about 1500 years ago, then largely abandoned. It was very quiet, with few tourists, making it easier to imagine the ancient civilisations.
Back in Oaxáca, the streets were still as lively as ever. I had a bite to eat, chatted with a pair of Americans with whom I then wandered round the markets. On my own again, I was wandering down one street when a young policewoman suddenly walked up and leveled a grave accusation at me. She said that she had been watching me, and I looked sad, and that I should cheer up! The irony of this got me smiling again, and forced me to practice my Spanish for a few minutes with her. Maybe this will end up being a turning point!
Finally I was back at the terminal, barely 24 hours after arriving, and boarded the night bus for Tuxtla and San Cristobal. I was pleased to discover that I could pick up the BBC World Service from inside the bus! The young Mexican sitting next to me did his best to converse about travelling, football and other things – he taught me a new word: “Mundial” meaning “World Cup”.
Eventually it got light and at 7am on 11th November the bus pulled into San Cristobal. It was very cold there and the sky was grey. I could see no reason to stick around, particularly given the urgency to get to Guatemala before any possible border closing (the election was that day). I bought a ticket and then walked down to the centre to have some breakfast. The tortillas had a strange taste which I thought was caused by the fact that they were wrapped in a tea towel which may not have been completely clean. Later I realised it was because they were made from corn meal instead of wheat flour!
Walking back to the terminal, still sleepy from the night bus ride, I had a bit of a scare crossing the road, and almost got run over. Having duly survived this carelessness, I was soon sitting on a bus heading for the Guatemalan border.
It wouldn’t be a backpacking trip without almost being ran over at least once ?. Mine was in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. The closest I ever came to death.
I am a bit behind in the story, my friend, but I am catching up. I love the story about the police woman in the market. It’s always amazing when traveling alone what others notice about us. Life and travel teaches us all kinds of good lessons. 🙂
Little things can make such a difference! That really was a turning point – after that, every time I felt a bit lonely and forlorn, I’d remember the policewoman in Oaxaca and smile to myself! 😀