Pilgrimage to the Mecca of Guitars

November 26 - December 2, 2000 -- Dying for a guitar, I make my way to Paracho via Morelia and Patzcuaro. Then in to Mexico City to take care of some pesky errands, a trip which ends with a very dramatic and pleasant surprise.

Morelia

Up early on Sunday, another beautiful day in Guanajuato. This is definitely a town you could fall in love with. It is very high like most of the places I've visited, five to eight thousand feet elevation, and the interesting thing is, it is often warm one minute and freezing the next because of the thin air. I'm glad to have my fleece along this morning, and am definitely enjoying the almost constant blue skies I have had since I've been in Mexico.

I wanted to get to Paracho as soon as possible to buy my guitar, but first, there were some towns in between that looked intriguing in the guidebook. I bought a 12 dollar ticket for Morelia, a town of half a million people that was supposed to have a lively student scene, architecture, and museums. Trip was fairly uneventful, Popped Bladder affair for most of the way. I passed through the little town of Irapuato, where the high school girls who had stolen the watch wanted to take me to see the band. Seeing that town brought up a little ironic smile and chuckle for sure.

About 2/3 of the way there, the route starts rising through some rather dramatic hills with lakebeds in the foreground. I�m not sure if Mexico is going through a dry spell or if all the lakes are being sucked dry or what, but this one was quite shallow and looked to be at about half capacity. A girl who had been sitting in back came up and asked to sit next to me. Her name was Maria Fernanda, she was a college student in Morelia, and we just launched into this talk about people and things, philosophy, life...Our knowledge of each others language was just limited enough to be frustrating. She was very smart, and was working on some interesting paper about the historic beliefs behind Day of the Dead and how it had changed since the government started promoting it for tourism purposes in the 1960's. I definitely wanted to know what her main thrust was, but I couldn't quite grasp all of the Spanish she was using. Then, I got to rambling about the soul being like water, that people are most beautiful in their states of change, and things get screwed up once we try to freeze them into a stationary impression of how we want them to be. Her eyes would light up, but then I'd lose her when I didn't have the words in Spanish to answer her questions. Anyways, we still were enjoying hanging out, so when we arrived, she followed me as I checked into the Hotel Posada Don Vasco where I checked in for 9 bucks a night. We went out for coffee and chatted for a long time. It was really nice. Beautiful downtown cathedral, old aqueduct like in Zacatecas, quite a lovely town.

In the morning, there was a different guy at the front desk of my hotel. I believe it was the owner, and he was a bitch. He didn't have change. In fact, only about half of the businesses in Mexico have change, and they seem to imply that you are quite an annoyance patronizing their esteemed business without having precisely the correct amount in pesos. I have a feeling that people just don�t like to go to the bank or something, but whatever it is, you often find yourself with large bills because 1) that is what the cash machine gives you and 2) everyone else wants you to pay in small bills and coins as well. I politely said to Mr. Surly that I would go make some change, but he said I would never pay him that way. I countered with, what is the checkout hour, because surely, I didn't have to make any decisions till then anyway. He said 1 PM, but the room would be rented by then. I was pissed, walked out to make change, and then thought, this is bullshit, walked right back in, grabbed my backpack and left, saying, I'm leaving now, the atmosphere here stinks. Felt great to say it too.

I guess I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I was getting a slight cold and I was kind of at that transition point in a long trip where it doesn't quite feel fresh and new and exciting like short vacation anymore. Also, I was a bit lonely and not settled into the groove of what I was doing...a long trip that would have many ups and downs. To mellow out, I bought a large juice and breakfast bread, sat in the sun and ate it very slowly, breathing calmly, and just watching people, observing their smiles and laughter, jokes, boredom, whatever as they walked by. See little Jeffy, not everyone is cranky and rude like the big bad wolf Mr. Surly hotel manager, this is a good place with good people, you like it here Jeffy, this is the best time of your life Jeffy, you are calm. After about an hour of this mind trick, I felt much better and was ready to rock and roll. Honestly, as silly as it sounds, it's the little things like that which make or break you. You can choose to be chipper or choose to be cranky, and it works for me to calm down this way, pretty important stuff when there is no one there to lend a sympathetic ear (read = someone to bitch to).

Patzcuaro

It was a lovely Monday morning, and I was feeling better now after my juice and bread, and I paid my 2 bucks and boarded my bus for the 1 hour Empty Bladder excursion to Patzcuaro. As I got off the bus and headed into the Zocalo, there was some sort of demonstration with men shouting and police standing around looking bored. I have a general dislike for most things political, so I steered a wide berth here. I found out later that this was only some teachers demanding more pay. I checked into the Hotel Posada de la Rosa for 8 bucks, simple room but it would work. The old guy running the place was hard of hearing and a bit hilarious. Had my first two milanesa sandwiches, breaded pork cutlet with avacado, tomatoes, and jalapenos for 12 pesos a piece, I was in heaven. Great if you need a hamburger fix or something. Later, sat in the square, watched the young kids flirt and the youngest kids chase pigeons. The sound of a flock of pigeons exploding into flight right next to you is amazing when you are sitting quietly and thinking. The look of glee on a three year old�s face after seeing the results of his sneakery is excellent to witness too. Had some drinks in an incredible bar on the main square, if you go there, you will know it, because it is like the other fantastic bars you have been in, and it will call you, and you will sit in the half light watching the beautiful brown eyed girl in the red dress sip her drink by the fire and you will smile, just like I did.

That night, I returned to my hotel and had an incredibly surreal experience of seeing light coming up through the floor. It appears that half of the floor of my hotel room was glass squares, a failed attempt at a sun roof for the pool hall down below. Someone had painted over this, I assume for the privacy of the hotel guests, but the paint was wearing off, giving my room a weird glow. Better yet was that there was a hole in one of the glass pains, so I got on the floor and stared down into the pool hall, smelling the stale smoke and cheap carpet and pool table felt, watching the men move around like knights with wooden lances, chatting chivalrously and participating in a latter day version of jousting. Very, very cool, I stayed there for awhile, enjoying the occasional clacking sound of the balls and the chatter coming up through the floor.

Paracho

The next morning, with my cold kicking in full now, and finding the chilly temperature and pace of Patzcuaro to be a little slow for my liking, I decided to head off to Paracho. First, it is a 3 dollar Empty Bladder ride to Uruapan, then you change buses to Paracho. From Patzcuaro to Uruapan, you rise up through amazing mountains that could be anywhere in the Pacific Northwest of the United States. Deciduous trees on rolling hills give way to short pine trees on impressive ridges, with valleys of wheat and corn in between. I was in heaven, imagining some good backpacking in those hills, searching for native trout in the streams. The bus change in Uruapan was uneventful and quick as always, and in a half hour I was standing in the rain in the one horse town of Paracho, population 15,000. I checked into one of two hotels, and since it was raining, I didn�t contest the 14 dollar price tag. By the time I got outside and had eaten, it had stopped raining, and a little old man named Rosalio pushed his bicycle around the back streets of the town with me, knocking on doors, introducing me to the best guitar makers in the town. It appears that not many people come directly to Paracho to buy guitars, instead, they are shipped off to other parts of Mexico and the world. A Spanish priest taught the people how to build guitars in the 1500�s as a means of each town in the area having a craft specialty, thus providing the native people a stable means of earning a living. People here have been doing it here ever since, and the town�s economy thrives because of it. Rosalio introduced me first to Jaime Escovido, and I nearly soiled my drawers when I played his guitars. He only had two ready, one a flamenco which is designed to have more string attack and so that the sound of each note decays faster, and the other a classical. They were perfectly balanced, sonically rich, beautifully designed and made totally by hand from incredible tone woods. Either of these guitars would fetch two to three thousand dollars in the states. He was asking five hundred dollars for each. As tempted as I was, the last thing I needed was a beautiful guitar that I would have to worry about damaging on long bus rides, and the 500 was a bit more than I wanted to spend since I was trying to stretch my trip out into March if possible. I had to politely leave, mumbling something in broken Spanish about him being a master. I looked at many more guitars, some not so good, but another absolutely master builder I met that day was Salvador Castillo. The two guitars I played had rosewood backs and sides, giving them a luscious, slight reverb. I was absolutely impressed, and at 500 dollars with hard shell case, these guitars were a steal.

I was attracting a lot of attention, wandering around the back streets like Indiana Jones with my guide Rosalio, knocking on this door and that. People were friendly here, and found me somewhat amusing in my floppy hat. A high school aged girl came running up saying in perfect English that she had been looking for me, and did I remember seeing her in the plaza, and would I be willing to speak English with her, she wanted to practice. I told her I was sorry, I didn�t remember her, that I was a bit distracted and tired, and I would be happy to speak English with her, just speak English right, that�s all you want? Yes, I have no one to speak it with here, so I practice in my head all the time. OK, no problem, I�ll meet you in the square in half an hour. I saw a few more guitars with Rosalio, tipped him 4 dollars, and went on my way.

Melissa and I spoke for a few hours, she showed me around to the cathedral and such, and we had tea in a nice coffee house. She had sadness in her young eyes. She had that high school angst, but it was deeper and more profound than most. Her father lived and worked in Las Vegas. Since he was a citizen of the US, so she was a citizen in both countries, but felt at home in neither. In the states, she had a job at Fat Burger, nice clothes, an amount of self-sufficiency and pride. The problem was, she liked the casinos but at 16 was too young to get in, she was perplexed by the Mexicans she met there who were embarrassed to speak Spanish, as if it was shameful somehow, and she hated boys she called cholos who were into gangs and the violence and the posturing that went along with it. Upon returning to Mexico though, all of her friends of her age had since gotten married, clothes were expensive but of low quality, it wasn�t fun going out dancing by herself, she couldn�t get a job that paid her more than 12 dollars a day, and her family in Mexico disapproved of her lifestyle and was talking behind her back. I felt for her...she was intelligent, hungry, restless, reminded me of lots of people I knew and still know.

She invited me to a party the next day, a guy was going to have his first child, and his buddies were throwing a party for him. I saw all the streamers and thousands of pine needles cleaned and stacked in neat piles for what I assume was going to be matting that would cover the street the next day. She was going to meet me at 9:30 sharp in the plaza, but when she didn�t show up by 10:15, I was too excited about the prospects of shopping for a guitar and getting out of there that I assumed she wasn�t coming and went about my shopping. About 10 minutes later, I saw a little black dog get hit by a car. She was wailing, barking and spinning in the street, one back leg horribly twisted and broken in multiple places, the stoic, thinking faces of several women pausing for a moment to see what the commotion was then continuing with their work, and the car driving off as if nothing had happened. I was deeply disturbed, but felt powerless to do anything. I was in a small town with probably no vet, and I didn�t like the thought of taking the dog to get it put to sleep if there was no care available for it, so I did what everyone else did and walked on. I took this to be a bad omen, but felt better when I saw her resting somewhat peacefully in the shade by a shop about an hour later. She wasn�t dead and she looked calm...I hoped she would make it. I saw dozens of guitars that day, listened to speals ranging from family tradition to awards to macho threats that now was the time to buy it gringo, what are you waiting for.

I held out though, and returned to a shop where the night before I had played a student model guitar made of solid woods that had beautiful, balanced tone for its size. In fact, it was a perfectly-sized for me on the buses...what would be called a travel guitar in the states. At 1100 pesos, it was a half or a third of the price of what I would expect to pay at home. I got him down to 950 pesos, because I still needed a case, and a few minutes later, with my 75 peso softshell case, I was perfectly in business. My guitar is sweet, whispers to me secrets some of which I might share in songs, others we keep to ourselves. She has a beautiful voice, sings sweet and pure. I�m in love, and take great care with her on the buses.

Mexico City

Later at the hotel, I felt bad because Melissa had indeed showed up, just late. I left a message for her with the manager that I was sorry, which she promised to pass on. I slept great that night and got up in the dark to go to Mexico City. I had thought about visiting the Monarch butterfly sanctuary, but there was a 30 dollar truck rental for the last bit there, and it didn�t seem worth it. Also, I had thought about the coast, but I wanted to by some more steroid noise spray and a Lonely Planet Central America on a Shoestring guidebook in English, and the only place I felt confident of finding these was in Mexico City. The bus ride was a 23 dollar, Popped Bladder affair, and I was thankful when it was over. Crossing my legs to hold the wee wee in was getting old after almost 8 hours.

It was Thursday evening, and I waited outside the Terminal Norte bus station for the electric buses to come by after a woman explained to me where to wait in line. The last time I had been in Mexico City, it had been two years before, I spoke no Spanish, and I was overwhelmed. 20 million people was too much for me to take and had caused me to panic the first time. This time, I was grooving to the guy playing guitar next to me on the packed bus. He was terrible, but I tipped him heavily because his words were amazing, a sort of Spanish Beck, rambling on and on about the hilarious comedy of life. From what I was picking up, the guy was a comedic master, and I was enjoying it immensely. Two people were very kindly assisting me in finding my stop. So much for what you hear on the news in the states about Mexico City. Everyone so far was being very kind and helpful to me.

I checked into the Hotel Juarez two blocks from the Zocalo for 11 bucks a night. This was by far the most Holiday Inn type hotel I had been in, and the hot water, TV, and firm bed were wonderful. On the TV, I took in a news story about Vicente Fox taking office the next day, Friday December 1. Entirely by luck, I was 2 blocks away from where a huge party in the Zocalo would be held for him at 6 PM on Friday. I headed down to the Zocalo to see what preparations were being made. The Zocalo in Mexico City is gigantic, I would say it is 4 blocks by 4 blocks of big, open plaza. It is 1 block to the northeast of here that the Aztecs built the Templo Mayor, after seeing an eagle eating a snake, and taking it as a sign that it was time for their wandering tribe to settle down and build a home city. This area used to be covered by a vast lake, and the Zocalo and the surrounding area was the island homeland of the Aztecs when the Spanish arrived in the 1500�s. To say the least, the Aztecs were a fiere warrior people. Over a four day period in the late 1400�s, they cut the beating hearts out of 20,000 conquered warriors to rededicate their Templo Mayor. The temple priests had all collapsed at the end in a fit of exhaustion. Well shucks, I guess I would have been all tuckered out too, all that heart cuttin and what not!

A young man approached me as I was wandering around the Zocalo and asked if I spoke Spanish. His name was Victor, he was a student, and as I would find out, one of the greatest people I had met thus far. He took great pride in showing me the Templo Mayor, talking about the Cathedral and the music there at Christmas, raising and lowering the flag each day in the Zocalo. He showed me the Mariachis, and we had yerba buena tea later to soothe my cold. He was just the greatest, and we met the next day at 1 PM in the Zocalo to see Vicente Fox take office. Once again, we had a great day. We spoke Spanish the whole time, and I felt very close to him, grateful that he spoke slow enough for me to understand. As we waited, had ice cream, chatted in the square, lots of people came up to me and chatted. They were all so excited and hopeful that Vicente Fox would bring change after 70 years of one party rule in Mexico. From what I had heard when he spoke, he was a farmer at heart and a good man. When I saw him milk a cow on TV, he damn well knew exactly how to do it, when he sang along with the mariachis, he knew every single word of the six verses and he sang with gusto even though he didn�t have a great voice. I found him to have great charisma. By 6 PM, he was out in the square, and the music, water show, fireworks, lasers were in full force. I started to get tears in my eyes when I saw the love and hope that all of the rich and poor people their had for him. He was telling them they were worth something, that they could be number one like the US. I am all for him and wish them all the best on the journey. At one point, one of the water tanks for the water display sprung a leak, and we were all standing there in an inch or two of water, packed in, totally unable to move. The water covered tons of unshielded looking power cords, but people continued on in their celebration, seemingly oblivious. It made me realize how close we are to death a lot of the time, and the most important thing is to live life to the fullest, rejoice when it is the time for rejoicing. I stopped worrying about it shortly and went back to cheering just like the rest of the thousands around me.

Victor, my wonderful host, friend, and guide from Mexico City and I finished off the night with a beer or two. I have a lot of wonderful memories from our chats about life. Great, great guy. It had been incredibly easy with his help to find my guidebook and nose spray. In Mexico, you don�t need a prescription, just walk in, tell them what you want or what your symptoms are, and voila, you are set. The next day, I saw the Museo de la Antropologia, one of the greatest collections of artifacts on the earth. Too much to really describe, but if you go there, you will be well rewarded, everything from entire small temples, to bones, to gold, to pottery. All in all, Mexico City had some of the kindest people I had met on my trip so far. My experience there had been wonderful, and was totally contrary to what you hear on the news. Of course, there is the poverty, and you definitely need to be on your toes and not out late at night or taking taxis in the wrong areas, but that shouldn�t dissuade you from enjoying this incredible city. Next stop for me would be Oaxaca, and soon after, on into Guatemala.

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