Mexico dispatch

En route to New Spain, via KLM, Club Class
Our first time to see how the other half lives
Or the other five per cent at least
They put you in a little capsule and give you haut cuisine
But it's still airline food
They have hotel rooms in Tokyo
Not much larger than these
And still they cost a thousand pounds a night
Like these.


Eleven hours later we arrive
Our souls and body clocks arrive six hours later
This is Mexico City
Three times the size of London
Ten times more colourful
We wander through San Angel and Coyoacan
Call them Mexico's Mayfair and Chelsea
Here lived Diego and Frida
And Trotsky, until the ice-pick cut him down
No Indian faces here, except among the servants
Here the faces are of the Spanish masters
We take the public bus to Teotihuacan
Locals think we're mad, tell us we'll be robbed, murdered maybe
But nothing happens
Except we see the real Mexico, and the real people
Aztec faces, Omec and Zapotec
The faces of ancient Mesoamerica
We climb the Pyramid of the Sun under a hazy sun
Delightfully warm, not hot
Still hot enough, however, to burn us
In places where sunscreen was carelessly applied
They say it is the world's biggest pyramid
Not tallest, but in ground covered
They say it may not have been dedicated to the sun, after all
But to Xlotl, God of rain
It makes sense.
The ancients never had to worry about the sun coming out
But water is another matter
As parched river beds attest
On this great pyramid, so many men, women and children died
To placate the Gods
In the end all the sacrifices failed
Climate change, a prolonged drought
And everything fell apart.


After five days of heat and dust and brilliant colours
We fly south to Oaxaca (you say "Whahakka")
The poverty grinding behind lined but cheerful faces
And everywhere, the vibrant colours
Vivid reds, yellows, greens, blues
They all seem to say:
Yes we are poor but we are not destroyed
Oddly, I am almost the only one smoking
Our guide takes us up the mountain to its ancient capital, Monte Alban
En route our way our way is barred by a road block
Set up by locals protesting a weak government that allows illegal building on their land
But their toll is a paltry 10 pesos- fifty pence.
Monte Alban: this is where they played the ball game
On a court like two T's back to back
The games took days, like a test match.
And when they were over, one side died (not cricket at all)
But whether winners or losers died, no one knows
A "sophisticated culture", based on mass murder
We are taken to a mescal still in the mountains
Its owners so poor it leeches from their very sweat
Perhaps they stay drunk on their product all day
If so who would blame them?
We buy a bottle of their best- aged three years in oaken casks
The price, a fraction of what it would cost in the Oaxaca
Will keep them afloat for a week
Later we visit hot mineral-rich springs
Even further into the mountains
Another road block; again the toll is tiny
There we find a shimmering emerald pool,
Inhabited by intrepid young New Zealand men
I join them, my ageing body and sun-screened pallor
Contrasting sharply with their Adonis-like bodies
And perfect tans
Bathing in its waters is like swimming in champagne.


I have been afraid of becoming ill
Packed all kinds of antibiotics and diarrhoea cures
But when I am ill
It is my own fault
I put too many hot chilles on my tostada
And paid for it in the toilet later
And just think: me a doctor!
What a dick I am, I thought
As the world fell out of my bottom
The following day I am fine
To my immense relief.


After nine days, back on the 747
Hibernating in the capsule again.
Did it help me sleep more easily than those in economy?
A little perhaps
But only a little.