Topic: Middle East
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A few years ago I went sailing around the Greek Islands with some friends. Unusually I can't have made to much of a pig out of myself because they invited me back again, or more like I invited myself back again. This years target is the Dalmatians in Croatia. Boats and weather are unpredictable beasts, so Mick and I fly into Split, about in the middle of Croatia. After a couple of locating texts we catch the bus up to Zardar to meet up with our “crew”.
Fitzy and Kate run Loki. She is a beautiful 48 foot Swan (yacht ), with one, sometimes two, of everything you need for comfortable cruising. They are great sailors, and have spent the last couple of Aussie winters sailing around the Med. The eventual aim is to head back to Oz sometime in the future slowly. Mick hasn’t been on a yacht before, so he is surprised to learn that (1) sailing is more expensive than motoring. (sails cost lots of money), (2) every where you stop some one wants to charge you for the pleasure of stopping there, even more so if they provide no facilities at all, and (3) yachts have no head room and lots of bulkheads. This last one he never really quite cottoned on to, even after many lessons.
Our days moved into a routine of breakfast, go explore the island we are anchored at, or sail to the next, swim ( weather permitting), drinkies on deck, go ashore, and check out the local dinner options, eat too much, repeat next day. Northern Croatian Islands tend to be green, have pleasant little villages, and a couple of good restaurants. They are conveniently staggered a couple of hours sailing from each other. Alas it was all over to quickly, we headed off on the ferry to Slovenia , letting the crew return to there usual peaceful life one again. Thanks for all Guys.
More photos you know what to do
Kate is a great photographer and has a blog click here to see some better pics, and catch her side of the story.
“ Don't eat all the the French food , leave some for me”one of my friends commented . I like to eat. Most people who know me, know that. Don't share a pizza with me. You'll lose. French food on the other hand, I can take or leave. So can the French, their largest employer is McDonalds. I mean, who puts artichokes on pizza, or aubergines, or fruit . Take something, pour cream and wine on it, it's a casserole. Pour wine and cream on it, it's still a casserole, not a completely new dish that the chef expects to be awarded the “legion of honour” for. Chilli, one decent pod would probably kill all the native French with in 200 km., Curry, No Merci. They have something called curry sauce, it's a bit like English Summer, the same word, totally different meaning. Think of luke warm cat puke, French curry sauce. I tried to buy some liquid stock to cook a brown stew with. I went to Carrafoure, Intermarchie and, Cassino, nothing but walls of stock cubes. Yes I know you can make stock from scratch, somehow I don't think they do. Next, French people, chips are not a vegetable, nor a substitute for. Every meal does not need melted cheese. Two different types of melted cheese do not cancel each other out.
Its not all bad. Bart Simpson called them cheese eating surrender monkey's, personally I don't think he emphasised the cheese eating enough. French cheese is the best, even the goat cheese is almost eatable. The standard supermarket has 4 aisles of the stuff along with 4 aisles of wine, proportionally correct as far as I’m concerned. They do great steaks, and they don't over cook them. The Menu, the midday workers lunch, is generally great value. Starter, Main, dessert, and a glass of wine for 15 Euro's. Winner. Cream, cheese. and wine casserole can be great, but not as a complete diet. Immigrants have bought their own cuisine. They have good Vietnamese pho. Kebab shops exist in most big towns. If you ask nicely you may even find the Kebab bloke has some Illegal chilly locked in the safe out the back, beside the Kalashnikov. With a bit of care even the pizza ain’t bad, if you avoid the artichokes. Me, I'm hanging for a vindaloo.
Over the years I've had many offers to try a spot of bike riding in Great Britain. I've easily managed to resist the temptation. If I’m going to fly to the opposite side of the world to get on a bicycle, it better be sunny, warm and dry. None of these things do I associate with the English summer. It isn't called a green and pleasant land for nothing. For some reason this changed after watching Michael Palin walking from Liverpool to Sheffield. What could be more pleasant than strolling along an old canal in the sunshine with a pub conveniently located every couple of hundred meters. Better still, do it on a bike, more time to chat to the quirky locals at the pub stops. The stars all align. My cousins want me to drive them around Europe, I'm being forced to fly to Heathrow, and I've forgotten about the English definition of summer.
This may come as a surprise to some of you but sometime I do have to work. A thanks here to the Australian Tax office for giving my life meaning. So I passed the planning off to my brother Mick. “Bike, Pubs, Canal, Liverpool to somewhere close to Liverpool”. Over the next couple of months I got regular emails with things like bike hire, and suggested route in them, which I skimmed the headers of, and then replied that’s fine. He even managed to sucker our friend Cath, to coming along. And thus I found myself at Euston station with a ticket to Liverpool, and a nagging thought in the back of my head that perhaps I should have read a few more of those emails.
I arrive and catch up with Cath and Mick at the station. We have a nice hotel booked in a converted mill in the middle of town, Cath has borrowed her sister’s bike. Just a` little summer rain to great us. Did you know the Beatles and Cilla Black where born here? Not that you can move more than ten feet around town without being reminded. Liverpool is a wonderful town with lots of bars and great old buildings. It's industrial history is everywhere, from the imposing East India` Building, to the old dock warehouses now turned into trendy flats and cafe's. We avoid all this and go for a dodgy Indian buffet in the back streets. The next morning we wander off to collect our renta bikes, it's only raining slightly.
Mick has also persuaded two English couples who we met in Cuba to come along as well. This is a stroke of genesis, not only may they have some idea of where we are going, Andrea has taken up the mantel of master logistics planner. I learn that we are ridding the Trans Pennine Trail (TPT). A two hundred mile trek that does follow some canals (without pubs), and climbs the Alpe D' Huez of England. First day, a leisurely fifty miles, the basted didn't put that in the header. We head off through the town bike trails down to the river. The sun comes out, and a brisk tail wind springs up. We ride along the Manchester ship canal ( to big for pubs), then duck on to one of the many abandoned rail lines that criss cross the area. All around us are remains of mighty Victorian industries. Coal pits, canals, train lines,and huge viaducts, all abandoned. A small note here on English bike paths, they are perfect except for the local councils love of putting obstructions on them. Every Kilometre, especially at the top or at the bottom of a steep hill there seems to be a narrow gate which you have to weave your bike through. A lot of time and effort has gone into making these extremely difficult to get a bike through, add random large rocks placed in the middle of the path, and you have made your signed bike path the most impracticably way of getting from “A to B” on a bike. Our track mainly avoids towns, but being Tom and Andrea's local they manage to find us a nice pub for lunch. Only 20 miles to go. After lunch continue till we hit Manchester. Only 4 miles to go. We ride around the Mersey and lose the trail. Only 4 miles to go. We leave the Mersey and hit the streets. Only 4 miles to go. Eventually we get to Tom's house where we are staying for the night. Only four miles to go becomes the standard distance measure to anywhere from now on. A few beers, a quick shower, chuck our washing in the machine,off to the local curry house for a non dodgy curry and some reds. Life couldn’t be better.
After a fab breakfast, we head out on our next leg. Tom brings out his riding secret. One hundred millilitre shots of condensed beetroot juice, this is the gear Lance Armstrong was on. For the next four days every time I go to the loo I think I have bowel cancer. The ride is only forty miles across what poses as a mountain range round here. Fortunately we are in the Costa del Sol of England so the weather is perfect. A few stops and a couple of hills and we find a pub for lunch. The trail continues rising slightly along an old line with great views as we rise above the valleys. John and Burnie, our other couple become our de facto leaders, John blazing the trail, and Burnie keeping an eye out for the pubs. Eventually we can see the top of our days ride, Its only about 4 miles down hill on the other side. There is a 3 mile tunnel through the hill. Great. Unfortunately it's full of high voltage power lines, put there after the line closed. We have to push (not ride) our bikes up a goat track another couple of miles to the summit. Eventually we get to the top, roll back down to the other end of the tunnel, only to find we need to ride back up the main road to get to our hotel for the night. It's worth it, beer and good grub await at the end. We all sleep well.
Day three. Selby only another leisurely 50 miles. Who organised this again.. I arrange to meet a mate, John at the end. Weather good as you would expect. Cath's sister has stuffed up her flights, and she has to leave us at the end of the day. That’s her story anyway, “Liz make sure she buys you a bottle of wine”. The trail is meant to be pretty much flat from here but some how we get lost and go down a steep hill. It takes us a hour to find the trail again. We ride another 4 miles to Bently train station . Three generations of the same family under 40 pushing prams, and a lack of trains are the only remarkable things about the place. Much to Cath's disgust we have to ride 4 miles back into Doncaster to get her a train out. She escapes while I try to find a loo in a Brit Rail station. We give up and check into the local motel. Total distance 37 miles. Bummer I missed John Stoddart for a bit of chat about the cricket which the Aussies are loosing along the track. Thank god for small mercies.
Day 4 50 miles, weather ominous. Trail flat. A good days ride past old airfields and along canals again. A bit of a Cuban tail wind ( straight in your face ) has sprung up. Lunch in Selby and I finally meet John for that chat. He joins us for the afternoon but heads back when the clouds arrive. We have a bit of trouble finding a place to stay so end up doing 60 miles for the day. It's starting to rain as we pull in to South Cave for the night but the food and beer is good
Day Six. 15 miles. Weather crap. The English summer has arrived with a vengeance. I get out the rain coat. Mick and I only have 15 miles to Hull. The others are foolishly going on to Hornsea. Another 15 miles. The track is good and we stop for a cuppa at the Hummber bridge which we can barely see through the mist. Soaking we finally get to lunch, and afterwards bid our English friends goodbye. They struggle along a muddy track for the next couple of hours but arrive in the end after a couple of punchers. I jump on my bike to ride a couple of hundred meters to to the car hire place. I've go a flat. It's close enough I'll walk.
We drive 200 miles back to Liverpool, through the mist to return the bikes, and spend the night in Southend reliving a bit of faded English glory, Basel Faulty would have been right at home at our “Prin of Wales Hote”. The Letters had fallen off the end of the sign. G n T, full English Breakfast, and a view over the mud where all available though. Back to Hull next morning to return the car, we arrive right on our 24 hour time slot. It's like ground hog day.
Thanks to Mick and Andrea for the planning, Tom for the bed, and the rest for being silly enough to come along.
Click The pic for more photos
You park the car free in the middle of the city, something unknown in the U.S. You hop on the monorail shuttle bus and your off into the world of the unbelievable. The first thing you notice is the light followed by the noise. The lights dull almost dark but punctuated by flashing miniature bulbs, thousands upon thousands and then the noise 5000 poker machines, crashing and clanging, paying out and taking in.
Come in, come in, all interstate visitors get a free chance to win a car. Step right up, step right up, $1.50 to win a helicopter, 75c to win a Ferrari, 15c to win a new Chev a penny to win a .357. Time stops. There are no clocks, things happen 24 hours a day, in the corner the band plays, down the hall $1.99 for a 4 course meal and as much as you can eat up on the mezzanine.
At Circus Circus the stage is set in the sky above the Tables, It drags the punters in, bright flashy lights keep them mesmerized. The kids to the video games, the adults to the slots, look up, see the lion tamer, the traipse act. The real show is on the floor below. Time stops, reels turn, coins clatter, Ma and Pa feed the machines.
Walk out the front door and grab a handful of coupons on a way for a free telephone call at the Stardust, or a free meal at the Nevada. Hey the sign out the front takes as much power as a small town to run and uses $5000 worth of electricity a month. Enter the next place, the games the same, only the characters have changed, block after block, mile after mile, everyone’s a winner.
You wont believe this but one of the guys at the hostel was telling Me how he needed to get a job in the morning and at 7 o’clock that night he rolls up in a chauffeur driven limo. He’s come to pick up his bags. Seems like he went down the Mint, put $5 on the blackjack tables, 5 hours later he’s $70,000 richer ($100,000 - 30,000 tax), and the casino has given him a limo, a room, and some Hookers for the night. And if they don’t get it back off him again tonight, tomorrow he flies home to Austria,. Everyone loves a winner.
Feel a bit lonely, rent a girl (this is Nevada you know) of course its not legal on the strip but in the next county and they give a private limo service. All major credit cards accepted. Then perhaps you feel like something a little more permanent. Wedding chapels operate 24 hours a day. For $49 Elvis can marry you and your girlfriend, boyfriend, mother, cat, dog, car, handgun. No blood tests, free documentation, flowers, photos and motels all arranged, for extra cash of course, or use your credit card, or someone else’s, it doesn't matter. Get a government cheque, any government cheque and they will cash it for you minus their take, they get payed whether its hot or not.
You walk back out to the car. How long has it been? 2 hours or 2 days, Times stopped you've walked a million miles, pulled a million slots your tired and broke. You start the car the noise slowly disappears, you drive, soon the lights are just a dull glow, suddenly its back to desert, cactus, gas stations every now and then, and lonely black miles. Did it happen? Did it really exist or was it just a dream, another gas station: you start to wonder.
For a few more pics click here
Ps. For a feel of the old Vegas go to Reno, 70's decore, cheap meals and you can still smoke at the tables.
Cuba 2015
On the way out of the country I try to buy some cigars. I can buy 150 with my credit card, which is to many to bring back to Australia, or I can go to another shop and buy ten with cash which I don't have enough of. I give up and go to the bar where for my five CUC's I can get a Cuba Libre or two coffees for me and Mick. I explain to the barman in my best Spanish that I am a good brother because I am buying my brother a coffee with my last change even though I want a rum. He gets me the coffees. Then when I sit down comes over with a rum and a smile. Thanks Cuba.
Click the pic above for some photos
Mick had that bunny in the headlights look , as he stepped into the bright lights of the arrivals hall at Mexico city's main airport. It's not that the place is different. It has a Burger King, is clean, and looks like any other new airport in the world. It's just that you are in , “well” , Mexico. Drug cartels, be heading's, corruption, Julie Bishop telling you not to come here and, if you accidentally do, leave straight away for some where safer like Syria. Stuff plays on a travellers mind during a 3 hour flight inbound. All the other gringo's had the same wide eyed stare, like the Federales where going to come and steal their children the moment they walked through the gate. Thats not correct they generally wait till you get outside before they steal your children. Fortunately not all was lost, “My names Russell and I'm here to help”. After the obligatory welcome, I grabbed a bag and headed past a bunch of well armed cops keeping a eye on things. I already had a spare smart card transport pass, which is the most difficult thing to obtain at the airport. On to the bus, another cop stands in the door way to look after you. Twenty minutes later we jump off on a quite dark street near the down town area of Zocalo. Not to worry its Monday night, not many people around but plenty of cops to keep us safe. It turns out that they have just broken up a long running union demonstration in the main square, most of the cops aren't here for us, there here to stop the teachers reoccupying the square. Has the same effect though. We arrive at our hostel which is in a stylish restaurant/hotel complex. I think the hostel is the old staff quarters, but whatever it is it's very smick. We head out to dinner past our police escort.
Down town Zocalo, during the day time is much less daunting. The shutters come up and the place is full of people, restaurants squares,and, shopping. It's not Guatemala, there is no one with a 12 gauge pump action guarding the Nike's store. Like most big city's, the centre is full of shops selling the important things, Joyeria ( Jewellary), Zapata's(shoes) and Ropa (clothes). There is lots to see here, and the place is big. The city is home to some 21.2 million people, making it the largest city in the western hemisphere. We head off to the local park which houses a whole pile of museums. The anthropology museums houses a fantastic history of past and present cultures, a day in it's self. It's a great place for architecture lovers, My favourites are, Placio de Bella Artes, the old university full of mosaic murals, and the Reforma area full of new skyscrapers, and shopping plazas. The public transport is good, cheap, and quick. In five days we see about 100th of what's on offer.
The local bus station TAPO, is a huge circular building, just out of the centre of town. From here hundreds of buses leave daily to all parts. Where off to Puebla an old town full of churches, about 4 hours away. The first class buses are quick and safe. You get searched more getting on than a Jahadi flying El Al. Twenty dollars gets you a comfy lay back seat, a snack, drink, set of headphones and a couple of latest edition pirated movie s, quite often in English with Spanish subtitles. Square tick, Church,s tick, then off to Oaxaca. more churches, and museums, good grub, and the odd ruina (pile of rocks). I am going to explode if I see another gold plated church full of bleeding Jesus's. We miss Hierve el Agua but you cant do everything.
It's time for a change of transport style, for twenty bucks we catch a Colectivo seven hours to the beach at Puerto Escondido. Colectivos are small 12 to 15 seat vans prone to roll-overs, due to the large amount of luggage tied to the roof. It's a long day of twisty bumpy roads sitting on a hard seat. Finally we arrive to find ourselves in the Bali of Mexico. We check in to a nice resort and live it up “Map Boy” style. Cocktails around the pool $ 2.50, each and a bang up steak dinner. We head down the road for Crapes on the beach for desert.
Next morning it's back to cheese n bickies. We catch the chicken bus 70km down the road to Zipolite. (Zee-po-lee-tae) The bus has no muffler, no ac, and no padding on the seats. Everyone else is sitting at the front so we take a couple of seats at the back. There doesn't seem to be a speed limit in Mexico, so every thing travels as fast as it will go. The way the locals solve this problem is by putting what feels like a curb and channel across the road at random locations. These are generally in front of restaurants, and other high value targets. You are free to go past schools, and kindergartens at full speed. We soon discover the suspension has been removed from the rear of the bus as an economy measure. Every time we go past a restaurant it feels like the back of the bus with the wheels removed, has been dropped off a four foot high wall on to a concrete slab. After an hour , my kidneys feel like they have been used to train a bunch of kick boxers. We jump a taxi for the last 10km with a couple of Canadians escaping the winter back home, and cruise in luxury down to the beach.
I'm really glad Mick wanted to come here. I was here 30 years ago with a couple of friends when there was nothing on the beach but a couple of huts. Mark and Karin used to work in the fishing industry in Alaska during the summer and head down to Mexico with little more than a guitar, and a few clothes for the winter. We stayed in a grass roofed, 30 square foot, adobe hut that leaked like a sieve when it rained, and baked when it wasn't. The bed room was a couple of hammocks hung under the tin veranda. There was a tap out the back in the middle of the paddock with half a 44 gallon drum and a shower head hanging off it. You left the tap open, and when the water started it refilled the drum, if you happened to be there you could also catch a shower. Rent was $5.25 a week split 3 ways. I won't mention the toilet faculties. The beach was 30 meters away the next neighbour was 500. The beach was a mile of pristine sand with a couple of small islands at each end, and a couple of good surf breaks. There where a few other hippies camped out in the bush, Surfing, Hackey sack, The Grateful dead, Bob Marley, and smoking Gunga where the main pastimes. Food was a twenty minute taxi ride to the market at Puerto Angel once a week, or a bit of bartering with the locals. Clothes where optional, Karin is a pretty little blond, and all the local Mexican boy's used to come down the beach to watch us go for a swim.
Things have changed a bit in the last thirty years, the beach is still here, clothes are still optional, and there are still a few of probably the same hippies hiding out in the bush. There are now palapas ( little huts ) all along the beach interspersed with restaurants, and small hotels. Some time in the 90's the Italians discovered the place, so you can get a good coffee, and great pasta here. Italian is spoken almost as much as English. There is a little road that runs behind the beach with shops and cafe's now. At night time it is filled with hippies selling jewellery on little tables between the cafes. The building code hasn't changed much which gives the place a nice ramshackle feel. There are no ATM's or credit cards taken, as a token to the 20 year olds the camp sites have wifi. We are staying in a nice bungalow that looks out on to the beach, the showers are still cold, and the attitude relaxed. I could stay here for a month.
Unfortunately it's not gonna happen. Tomorrow back to Purto Esco, then off to the Yucatan. No 40 hour chicken bus rides for us. We catchen da plane. Hasta Luego Dude's.
For more photo's Click the pic
This story is actually from my Bro. You can't say I'm not an equal oppourtunity employer. I even pay him the same rates I get. Click the pic for more photos
The night I arrived in Mexico, Russ met me at the airport and after catching the airport special bus (30 pesos rather than the usual 6) and checking in we took a small walk down the equivalent of Bourke St. It was eerily quiet with all the shops steel shuttered with multiple padlocks and the odd group of hooded youth loitering. After we'd walked six blocks the people we saw mostly were the “Policia Federal” huddling in groups and armed to the teeth, sporting riot shields, ballistic vests and helmets. More police in cars with red and blue flashing lights operating, cruised past. Had I dropped into a war zone?
To read “Lonely Planet” or what we read of Mexico in the papers there's a “bandito” behind every door and a drug cartel gangster ready to put a bullet in your head just for looking sideways at him. What I'd seen from the bus and the police presence hadn't quelled my fears.
The next morning we ventured down the same street and it was transformed. I was expecting to be hassled from the moment I left the hotel but I felt a lot safer here than in the US. Yes there were beggars on the street but nowhere near the numbers we saw in San Francisco and the spruikers trying to sell you stuff are probably worse in Lygon St. Buskers did there thing juggling, dressed in costume or grinding their organs with their “monkey” (a man dressed in cream uniform) passing a cap for donations. People sported business suits and well dressed women wore long pants and t-shirts or jackets. The shutters had all come up and all the “friendly faces” of large Corporates such as McDonalds and Starbucks mixed it with the local businesses. The police were still there but the riot shields, etc seemed less ominous in daylight. Most of them just seemed bored. Traffic was in gridlock and all seemed “normal”.
After San Francisco where you just need to look like you're about to cross the street and cars will stop, Mexico City is altogether different. Traffic lights are just a vague indication of whose turn it is and it's up to the pedestrian to assert their right to cross. Indeed the police will often continue to wave cars through the red and it's not until a sufficient bulk of humanity has amassed before pedestrians are motioned to – even then you have to keep your wits as bicycles (brave souls) and motorbikes weave around.
The architecture is what stuns me most about the city. Amazing art deco and Victorian era edifices with interiors still intact – think the ANZ building in Collins St. There's a restaurant chain called Sanborns which is a bit like the old style Coles Cafeteria but with table service. Entering its original restaurant (since 1903) is akin to entering a grand ballroom with granite columns towering skyward toward a decorative glass canopy. Well attired waiting staff show you to your chair – you can dine like a king – all for the bargain basement price of about $20/head!
The buildings of the State are even more impressive with the “Palacio de Correos” (Palace of the Post Office) literally being a palace complete with ornate elevator crafted by a fine Italian foundry at the turn of last century. In the Internet age it didn't seem to be doing much business but no-one seemed to care. Across the way is the even more impressive “Palicio de Belles Artes” with similar architecture but also sporting murals from famous Mexican artists. Included is the notorious mural re-painted by Diego Rivera after it had been rejected by J.D Rockefeller in New York. It contained an unfavourable image of him and an image of Lenin which Rivera had refused to paint over so Rockefeller had it destroyed.
On the subject of art we were privileged to be taken to the university campus where Jane's 2nd cousin, Luis; works. It's a sprawling site of some 1500 acres and includes a nature reserve (we saw lizards and a black squirrel) and a cultural enclave which was hosting a symphonic orchestra recital when we were there. It's not on the normal tourist trail but Luis showed us the amazing facilities and explained the history of the campus including the many amazing mosaic murals which tower many stories high on most of the campus buildings. They display many historical and cultural aspects of Mexican society and are all made from mosaic tiles perhaps a couple of centimetres square. There was also many modern sculptures from the 1980s which neither Luis or we cared much for but some must like. Many of Mexico's most learned have graduated from this campus and is well worth a visit.
Another “must see” is the “Museo de Anthropologica”. It houses much of Mexico's cultural heritage and is well laid out with many excellent dioramas and replicas of much of the Mayan and Aztec sites together with the original relics from them. We spent a whole day there and I probably could have stayed another few hours if my back and knees had held out better!
My favourite was the replica of the tomb at Palenque which is no longer open to the public due to condensation caused by the breath of the millions of visitors so this is the next best thing. It's the tomb of the ruler who was buried with a jade face mask and made infamous in the 1970s by Erich Von Daniken's book “Chariots of the Gods” in which he purported the tomb lid showed an ancient space craft – it has since been de-bunked by many Mayan scholars as usual Mayan imagery. Ironically I almost missed it as it's downstairs from the main Mayan displays and there's no signage to it but Russ sniffed it out. This was quite surprising as the rest of the place is well signed including much English.
Lack of signage is a common problem with the underground rail. Mexico City has a great Metro system but unlike London or Paris where the Metro has ornate entrances, often the entrances are just steps leading down. After a while you get the hang of looking for the crowds disappearing like rabbits down a barrow but for the first few days we could be standing just metres from an entrance, staring bewilderedly at our map. It's surprising as once you're downstairs there's a whole city of commerce and good signage for all the lines and connections. Maybe they ran out of money for the entrances!
The signage aside, the Metro was designed and built by the Swiss in the 1970s and 80s so works well with a modern swipecard system (Myki take note). At about 50 cents a trip and with the roads choked by traffic it's what everyone uses to get around. Again, reading the travel books you'd be lead to believe the Metro was full of thieves and pickpockets but even in peak hour crammed in tight there seemed to be little problem – though I did keep my hand in my wallet pocket just in case! Where Metro doesn't cover, Mexico City has taken its grand boulevards and dedicated one of the lanes exclusively to the Metrobus system (Hoddle St, amongst others could do with this) and these interchange with the Metro proper, making getting around this megaopolis of 20 million a breeze.
Here in the capital, food is a smorgasboard with everything available from expensive Western junk and delightful cafes as mentioned previously to street stalls selling standard Mexican fare such as tacos and enchiladas for about $1 a pop. Luis tells us that the basic wage in Mexico is about $A5/day so even at these prices food is too expensive for many so it's not surprising that the Mexicans are an enterprising lot with many taking on 2nd jobs selling all sorts of things to make ends meet. While riding the Metro it's pretty common for people to come through the carriage selling everything from Western CDs to long bits of elastic - for what purpose I'm not sure. If they're not selling product they'll be strumming a guitar or singing along with a “boom box” strapped to their chest in a cacophony of sound. Some deserve the few pesos they're given, others you'd pay to go away!
So that's pretty much sums up my impressions of the first week in Mexico. Unfortunately I didn't get as much done as I'd hoped as I ate a part of one of the aforementioned tacos that Russ was having or perhaps ingested some local water which gave me the touristas for a day – his system had already acclimatised! It did allow me to become well acquainted with the Mexican plumbing though and aside from remembering to throw your used paper in the bin beside the facilities (common in much of Latin America), always remember to take spare paper with you- I learnt this the hard way and as Luis said, “this isn't Germany”.
Adios for now, We're off to the Modern Art gallery.